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MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


The Heiress of Hilldrop; 

OR, 

THE ROMANCE OF A YOUNG GIRL. 

By OHARLOTTE M. BBABMB, 

Author of “ Dora Thome." 

Complete in Seaside Library (Pocket Edition), No. 741, 
PRINTED IN LARGE, BOLD, HANDSOME TYPE. 

PRI€i: 30 CENTS. 


For sale by all newsdealers, or sent to any address, postage pre- 
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SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION), HO. 711. 

A CARDINAL SIN. 

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BY HUGH CONWAY, 

Author of “ Called Back.” 

PRINTED IN LARGE, BOLD, HANDSOME TYPE. 


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P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street New York 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


vl. 

^ ) 7 


BY 




CHARLOTTE M. YONGE. 

If 




NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO y? V^NDKWATKR StRKET. 



OHAKLOTTE M. YONGE\S WORKS 

CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION): 

NO. PRICE. 

247 The Armourer’s Prentices . . . ' . . 10 

275 The Tliree Brides 10 

535 Henrietta’s Wish 10 

563 The Two Sides of the Shield 20 

640 Nuttie’s Father . . . _ . . . . ' . 20 

665 The Dove in tlie Eagle’s Nest . . , . . . 20 , 

666 3Iy Young Alcides 20 - 

739 The Caged Lion 20 

742 Love and Life 20 

783 Chantry Ilouse^ . .20 

790 The Chaplet of Pearls; or, The White and Black Ri- 

baumont. First half ' . 20 

790 The Chaplet of Pearls; or, The White and Black Ri- 

baumont. Second half 20 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


CHAPTER 1. 

A XURSERY PROSE. 

And if it be the heart of man 
Which our existence measures, 

Far longer is our childhood’s span 
Than that -of manly pleasures. 

For long each month and year is then, 

Their thoughts and days extending, 

But montlis and years pass swift with men 
To time’s last goal descending. 

Isaac Williams. 

The united force of the younger generation has been 
brought upon me to record, with the aid of diaries and let- 
ters, the circumstances connected with Chantry House and 
my two dear elder brothers. Once this could not have been 
done without more pain than I could brook, but the lapse 
of time heals wounds, brings compensations, and, when the 
heart has ceased from aching and yearning, makes the mem- 
ory of what once filled it a treasure to be brought forward 
with joy and thankfulness. Nor would it be well that some 
of those mentioned in the coming narrative should be 
wholly forgotten, and their place know them no more. 

To explain all, I must go back to a time long before the 
morning when my father astonished us all by exclaiming, 
‘‘ Poor old James Winslow! So Chantry House is come to 
us after all!^^ Previous to that event I do not think we 
were aware of the existence of that place, far less of its be- 
ing a possible inheritance, for my parents would never have 
permitted themselves or their family to be unsettled by the 
notion of doubtful contingencies. 

My father, John Edward Winslow, was a barrister, and 
held an appointment in the Admiralty Office, which em- 


6 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


ployed him for many hoars of the day at Somerset House. | 
My mother, whose maiden name was Mary Griffith, be- 
longed to a* naval f aniily. Her father had been lost in a 
West Indian hurricane at sea, and her uncle. Admiral Sir j 
John Griffith, was the hero of the family, having been at 
Trafalgar and distinguished himself in cutting-out expedi- | 
tions. My eldest brother bore his name. The second was / 
named after the Duke of Clarence, with whom my mother j 
had once danced at a ball on board ship at Portsmouth, and \ 
who had been rather fond of my uncle. Indeed, I believe ' 
my father ^s appointment had been obtained through his - 
interest, just about the time of Clarence’s birth. ' 

We three boys had come so fast upon each other’s heels 
in the Novembers of 1809, 10, and 11, that any two of us : 
used to look hke twins. There is still extant a feeble water- 
colored drawing of the trio, in nankeen frocks, and long 
white trousers, with bare necks and arms, the latter twined 
together, and with the free hands, Griffith holding a bat, 
Clarence a trap, and I a ball. I remember the emulation 
we felt at Griffith’s privilege of eldest in holding the bat. 

The sitting for that picture is the only thing I clearly re- 
member during those earlier days. I have no recollection 
of the disaster, which, at four years old, altered my life. 
The catastrophe, as others have described it, was that we 
three boys were riding cock-horse on the balusters of the 
second floor of our house in Montagu Place, Russell Square, 
when we indulged in a general milee, which resulted in all 
tumbling over into the vestibule below. The others, to 
whom I served as cushion, were not damaged beyond the 
power of yelling, and were quite restored in half an hour; 
but I was undermost, and the consequence has been a 
curved spine, dwarfed stature, an elevated shoulder, and a 
siiortened, nearly useless leg. 

What I do remember, is my mother reading to me Miss 
Edgeworth’s “ Frank and the little dog Trusty,” as I lay 
in my crib in her bedroom. I made one of my "nieces hunt 
up the book for me the other day, and the story brought 
back at once the little crib, or the watered blue moreen 
canopy of the big four-poster to which I was sometimes 
lifted for a change; even the scrawly pattern of the paper, 
which my weary eyes made into purple elves perpetually 
pursuing crimson ones, the foremost of whom always turned 
upside down; and the knobs in the Marseilles counterpane 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


7 


with which my fingers used to toy. I have heard my 
mother tell that whenever I was most languid and suft'er- 
ing I used to whine out, “ 0 do read ‘ Frank and the little 
dog Trusty/ and never permitted a single word to be va- 
ried, ill the curious childish love of reiteration with its sooth- 
ing power. 

I arn afraid that any true picture of our parents, especial- 
, ly of my mother, will not do them justice in the eyes of 
the young people of the present day, who are accustomed 
to a far more indulgent govei’nment, and yet seem to me to 
know little of the loyal generation and submission with 
which we have, through life, regarded our father and 
mother. It would have been reckoned disrespectful to ad- 
. dress them by these names; they were through life 
to us, in private, papa and mamma, and we never pre- 
sumed to take a liberty with them. I. doubt whether the 
. petting, patronizing equality of terms on which children 
now live with their parents be equally wholesome. There 
was then, however, strong love and self-sacrificing devo- 
tion ; but not manifested in softness or cultivation of sym- 
pathy. Nothing was more dreaded than spoiling, which 
was viewed as idle and unjustifiable self-gratifi cation at the 
expense of the objects thereof. There were an unlucky 
little pair in Russell Square who were said to be spoiled 
children/^ and who used to be mentioned in our nursery 
with bated breath as a kind of monsters or criminals. I 
believe our mother labored under a perpetual fear of spoil- 
ing Griff as the eldest, Clarence as the beauty, me as the 
invalid, Emily (two years younger) as the only girl, and 
Martyn as the after- thought, six years below our sister. 
She was always performing little acts of conscientiousness, 
little as we guessed it. 

Thus though her unremitting care saved my life, and 
was such that she finally brought on herself a severe and 
dangerous illness, she kept me in order all the time, never 
wailed over me nor weakly pitied me, never permitted re- 
sistance. to medicine nor rebellion against treatment, en- 
forced little courtesies, insisted on every required exertion, 
_ and hardly ever relaxed the rule of Spartan fortitude in 
herself as in me. It is to this resolution on her part, car- 
ried out consistently at whatever present cost to us both, 
that I owe such powers of locomotion as I possess, and the 
habits of exertion that have been even more valuable to me. 


8 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


When at last, after many weeks, nay, months, of this watch- 
fulness, she broke down, so that her life was for a time in 
danger, the lack of her bracing and tender care made my 
life very trying, after I found myself transported to the 
nursery, scarcely understanding why, accused of having by 
my naughtiness made my poor mamma so ill, and discover- 
ing for the first time that I was a miserable, naughty little 
fretful being, and with nobody but Clarence and the house- 
maid to take pity on me. 

Nurse Gooch was a masterful, trustworthy woman, and 
was laid under injunctions not to. indulge Master Edward. 
She certainly did not err in that respect, though she attend- 
ed faithfully to my material welfare; but woe to me if I 
gave way to a little moaning; and what I felt still harder, 
she never said ‘‘ good boy if I contrived to abstain. 

I hear of carpets, curtains, and pictures in the existing 
nurseries. They must be palaces compared with our great 
bare attic, where nothing was allowed that could gather 
dust. One bit of drugget by the fireside*^ where stood a 
round table at which the maids talked and darned stock- 
ings, was all that hid the bare boards; the walls were as 
plain as those of a work-house, and when the London sun 
did shine, it glared into my e3^es through the great un- 
shaded windows. There was a deal table for the meals 
(and very plain meals they were), and two or three big 
2:)resses painted white for our clothes, and one cupboard for 
our toys. I must say that Gooch was strictly just, and never 
permitted little Emily, nor Griff — though he was very de- 
cidedly the favorite — to bear off my beloved woolly dog to 
be stabled in the houses of wooden bricks which the two 
were continually constructing for their menagerie of 
maimed animals. 

Griff was deservedly the favorite with every one who was 
not, like our parents, conscientiously bent on impartiality. 
He was so bright and winning, he had such curly tight- 
rolled hair with a tinge of auburn, such merry bold blue 
eyes, such glowing dimpled cheeks, such a jo3"otis smile all 
over his face, and such a ringing laugh; he was so strong, 
brave, and sturdy, that he was a boy to be proud of, and 
a perfect king in his own way, anaking every one do as he 
pleased. All the maids, and Peter the footman, were his 
slaves, every one except nurse and mamma, and it was 
only by a strong efforf of principle that they resisted him; 


CTIAKTRY HOUSE. 


9 


while he dragged Clarence about as his devoted though not 
always happy follower. 

Alas! for Clarence! Courage was not in him. The 
fearless infant boy chiefly dwells in conventional fiction, 
and valor seldom comes before strength. Moreover, I have 
come to the opinion that though no one thought of it at 
the time, his nerves must have had a terrible and lasting 
shock at the accident and at the sight of my crushed and 
deathly condition, Avhich c ' '' ' ’ ^ . 



them to think of soothing 


fear was the misery of his life. Darkness was his horror. 
He would scream till he brought in some one, though he 
knew it would be only to scold or slap him. The house- 
maid^s closet on the stairs was to him an abode of wolves. 
Mrs. Gatty's tale of '‘The Tiger in the Coal-box ' Ms a 
transcript of his feelings, except that no one took the 
trouble to reassure him; something undefined and horrible 
was thought to wag in the case of the eight-day clock; and 
he could not bear- to open the play-cupboard lest " some- 
thing should jump out on him. The first time he was 
taken to the Zoological Gardens the monkeys so terrified 
him that a by-stander insisted on GoochM carrying him 
away, lest he should go into fits, though Griffith was shout- 
ing with ecstasy, and could hardly forgive the curtailment 
of his enjoyment. 

Clarence used to aver that he really did see " things in 
the dark, but as he only shuddered and sobbed instead of 
describing them, he was punished for "telling fibs,^^ 
though the house-maid used to speak under her breath of 
his being a "Sunday child. And after long penance, 
tied to his stool in the corner, he would creep up to me and 
whisper, "But, Eddy, I really did!^^ 

However, it was only too well established in the nursery 
that Clarence^’s veracity was on a par with his courage. 
When taxed with any misdemeanor, he used to look round 
scared and bewildered, and utter a flat demur. One scene 
in particular comes before me. There were strict laws 
against going into shops or buying dainties without ex2:)ress 
permission from mamma or nurse; but one day when Clar- 
ence had by some chance been sent out alone with the good- 
natured house-maid, his fingers were found sticky. 

" Now, Master Clarence, youWe been a naughty boy. 


10 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


eating of sweets/’ exclaimed stem Justice in a mob cap 
and frills. 

‘‘ No — no — ” faltered tlie victim; but, alas! Mrs. Gooch 
had only to thrust her hand into the little pocket of his 
monkey suit to convict him on the spot. 

The maid was dismissed with a month’s wages, and poor 
Clarence underwent a strange punishment from my moth- 
er, who was getting about again by that time, namely, a 
drop of hot sealing-wax on his tongue, to teach him 
practically the doom of the false tongue. It might have 
done him good if there had been sufficient encouragement 
to him to make him try to win a new character, but it only 
added a fresh terror to his mind; and nurse grew fond of 
manifesting her incredulity of his assertions by always re- 
ferring to Griff or to me, or even to little Emily. What 
was worse, she used to point him out to her congeners in 
the Square or the Park as “ such a false child.” 

" He was a very pretty little fellow, with a delicately rosy 
face, wistful blue eyes, and soft, light, wavy hair, and per- 
haps Gooch was jealous of his attracting more notice than 
Griffith, and thought he posed for admiration, for she used 
to tell people that no one could guess what a child he was 
for slyness; so that he could not bear going out with her, 
and sometimes bemoaned himself to me. 

There must be a good deal of sneaking in the undevel- 
oped nature, for in those days I was ashamed of my pref- 
erence for Clarence, the naughty one. But there wag no 
helping it, he was so much more gentle than Griff, and 
would always give: up any sport that incommoded me, in- 
stead of calling me a stupid little ape, and becoming more 
boisterous after the fashion of Griff. Moreover, he fetched 
and carried for me unweariedly, and would play at spille- 
kins, help to put up puzzles, and enact little dramas 
with our wooden animals, such as Griff scorned as only 
fit for babies. Even nurse allowed Clarence’s merits to- 
ward me and little Emily, but always with the sigh: ‘‘ If 
he was but as good in other respects, but them quiet ones 
is always sly. ” 

Good Nurse Gooch! We all owe much to her stanch 
fidelity, strong discipline, and unselfish devotion, but nat- 
ure had not fitted her to deal with a timid, sensitive child, 
of highly nervous temperament. Indeed, persons of far 
more insight might have been perplexed by the fact that 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


11 


Clarence was exemplary at cliurcli and prayers, family and 
private — whenever Gritf would let him, that is to say —and 
would add private petitions of his own, sometimes of a 
startling nature. He never scandalized the nursery, like 
Griff, by unseemly pranks on Sundays, nor by innovations 
in the habits of Noah^s ark, but was as much shocked as 
nurse when the lion was made to devour the elephant, or 
the lion and v/olf fought in an embrace fatal to their legs. 
Bible stories and Watts^’s hymns were more to Clarence than 
even to me, and he used to ask questions for which Gooch's 
theology was quite insufficient, and which brought the in- 
variable answers, “ Now, Master Clarry, I never did! Lit- 
tle boys should not ask such questions!" “What's the 
use of your pretending, sir! It's all falseness, that's what 
it is! I hates hypercriting !" “Don't worrit, Master 
Clarence; you are a very naughty boy to say such things. 
I shall put you in the corner!" 

Even nurse was scared one night when Clarence had a 
frightful screaming fit, declaring that he saw “ her — her — 
all white," and even while being slapped, reiterated, “ her, 
Lucy!" 

Lucy was a kind elder girl in the Square gardens, a pro- 
tector of little timid ones. She was known to be at that 
time very ill with measles, and in fact died that very, night. 
Both my brothers sickened the next day, and Emily and I 
soon followed their example, but no one had it badly except 
Clarence, who had high fever, and very much delirium each 
night, talking to people whom he thought he saw, so' as to 
make nurse regret her severity on the vision of Lucy. 


CHAPTER 11. 

SCHOOL-ROOM DAYS. 

In the loom of life-cloth pleasure. 

Ere our childish days be told. 

With the warp and woof inwoven, 

Glitters like a thread of gold. 

Jean Ingelow. 

Looking back, I think my mother was the leading spirit 
in our household, though she never for a moment suspected 
it. Indeed, the chess queen must be the most active on 
the home board, and one of the objects of her life was to 


12 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


give her husband a restful evening when he came home to 
the six-o^clock dinner. She also had to make both ends 
meet on an income which would seem starvation at the 
present day; but she was strong, spirited, and managing, 
and equal to all her tasks till the long attendance upon me, 
and the consequent illness, forced her to spare herself — a 
little — a very little. 

Previously she had been our only teacher, except that my 
father read a chapter of the Bible with^ us every morning 
before breakfast, and heard the Catechism on a Sunday. 
For we could all read long before young gentlefolks nowa- 
days can say their letters. It was well for me, since books 
with a small quantity of type, and a good deal of frightful 
illustration, beguiled many of my weary moments. You 
may see my special favorites, bound up, on the shelf in my 
bedroom. Crabbers “ Tales, “ Frank, “ The ParenPs 
Assistant, and later, Croker^s Tales from English His- 
tory,’^ Lamb ^s ‘‘ Tales from Shakespeare,^'’ ‘‘Tales of a 
Grandfather,^^ and the “ Rival Orusoes stand pre-eminent 
— also “ Mrs. Leicester's School,^^ with the ghost story cut 
out. 

Fairies and ghosts were prohibited as unwholesome, and 
not unwisely. The one would have been enervating to me, 
and the other would have been a definite addition to Clar- 
ence’s stock of horrors. Indeed, one story had been cut out 
of Crabbe’s “ Tales,” and another out of an Annual pre- 
sented to Emily, but not before Griff had read the latter, 
and the version he related to us probably lost nothing in the 
telling; indeed, to this day I recollect the man, wont to 
slay the harmless cricket on the hearth, and in a storm at 
sea pursued by a gigantic cockroach and thrown overboard. 
The night after hearing this choice legend Clarence was 
found croucliing beside me in bed for fear of the cockroach. 
I am afraid the vengeance was more than proportioned to 
the offense! 

Even during my illness that brave mother struggled to 
teach my brothers’ daily lessons, and my father heard them 
a short bit of Latin grammar at liis breakfast (five was 
thought in those days to be the fit age to begin it, and 
fathers the fit teachers thereof). And he continued to give 
this morning lesson when, on our return from airing at 
Ramsgate after our recovery from the measles, my mother 
found she must submit to transfer us to a daily governess. 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


13 


Old Mrs. Newton^s attainments could not have been 
great, for her answers to my inquiries were decidedly funny, 
and prefaced sotto voce with, “ What a child it is!^^ But she 
was a good kindly lady, who had the faculty of teaching, 
and of forestalling rebellion; and her little thin corkscrew 
curls, touched with gray, her pale eyes, prim black silk 
apron, and sandaled shoes, rise before me full of happy 
associations of tender kindness and patience. She was 
wise, too, in her own simple way. When nurse would have 
forewarned her of Clarence^s failings in his own hearing, 
she cut the words short by declaring that she should like 
never to find out which was the naughty one. And when 
habit was too strong, and he had denied the ink spot on the 
atlas, she persuasively wiled but a confession not only to 
her but to mamma, who hailed the avowal as the beginning 
of better things, and kissed instead of punishing. 

Clarence ^s queries had been snubbed into reserve, and I 
doubt whether Miss IS’ewton^s theoretic theology was very 
much more developed than that of Mrs. Gooch, but her 
practice and devotion were admirable, and she fostered 
religious sentiment among us, introducing little books which 
were welcome in the restricted range of Sunday read- 
ing. 

Indeed, Mrs. Sherwood ^s have some literary merit, and 
her ‘‘ Fairchild Family indulged in such delicious and 
eccentric acts of naughtiness as quite atoned for all the re- 
ligious teaching, and fascinated Griff, though he was apt to 
be very impatient of certain little affectionate lectures to 
which Clarence listened meekly. My father and mother 
were both of the old-fashioned orthodox school, with minds 
formed on Jeremy Taylor, Blair, South, and Seeker, who 
thought it their duty to go diligently to church twice on 
Sunday, communicate four times a year (their only oppor- 
tunities), after grave and serious preparation, read a ser- 
mon to their household on Sunday evenings, and watch 
over their children's religious instruction, though in a re- 
served undemonstrative manner. My father always read 
one daily chapter with us every morning, one Psalm at 
family prayers, and my mother made us repeat a few verses 
of Scripture before our other studies began; besides which 
there was special teaching on Sunday, and an abstinence 
from amusements, such as would now be called Sab- 
batarian, but a walk in the Park with papa was so much 


14 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


esteemed that it made the day a happy and honored one to 
those who could walk. 

There was little going into society, comparatively, for 
people in our station — solemn dinner-parties from time to 
time — two a year, did we give, and then the house was 
turned upside down — and now and then my father dined 
out, or brought a friend home to dinner; and there were 
so-called morning calls in the afternoon, but no tea- drink- 
ing. For the most part the heads of the family dined alone 
at six, and afterward my father read aloud some book of 
biography or travels, while we children were expected to 
employ ourselves quietly, threading beads, drawing, or put- 
ting up puzzles, and listen or not as we chose, only not in- 
terrupt, as we sat at the big, central, round,"' mahogany 
table. To this hour I remember portions of Belzoni^s 

Eesearches and Franklin^s terrible American advent- 
ures, and they bring back tones of my father^s voice. As 
an authority “ papa was seldom invoked, except on very 
serious occasions, such as Griffiths’s audacity, Olarence^s 
falsehood, or my obstinacy; and then the affair was formid- 
able. He was judicial and awful, and, though he would 
graciously forgive on signs of repentance, he never was 
sympathetic. He had not married young, aiid there were 
forty years or more between him and his sons, so that he 
had left too far behind him the feelings of boyhood to 
make himself one with us, even if he had thought it -right 
or dignified to do so — yet I can not describe the depth of 
the respect and loyalty he inspired in us, nor the delight we 
felt in a word of commendation or a special attention from 
him. 

The early part of Miss Newton ^s rule was unusually fer- 
tile in such pleasures, and much might have been spared, 
could Clarence have been longer under her influence; but 
Griff grew beyond her management, and was taunted by 
“ fellows in the Square into assertions of manliness, such 
as kicking his heels, stealing her odd little fringed parasol, 

E itching his books into the area, keeping her in misery with 
is antics during their walks, and finally leading Clarence 
off after Punch into the Rookery of St. Gileses, where she 
could not follow, because Emily was in her charge. 

This was the crisis. She had to come home without the 
boys, and though they arrived long before any of the 
authorities knew of their absence, she owned with tears 


CHANTKY HOUSE. 


15 


that she could not conscientiously be responsible any longer 
for Griffith — who not only openly defied her authority, but 
had found out how little she knew, and laughed at her. I 
have reason to believe also that my mother had discovered 
that she frequented the preachings of Rowland Hill and 
Baptist Noel; and had confiscated some unorthodox tracts 
presented to the servants, thus being alarmed lest she 
should implant the seeds of dissent. 

Parting with her after four years under her was a real 
grief. Even Griff was fond of her; when once emancipated, 
he used to hug her and bring her remarkable presents, 
and she heartily loved her tormentor. Everybody did. It 
remained a great pleasure to get her to spend an evening 
with us while the elders were gone out to dinner; nor do I 
think she ever did us anything but good, though I am 
afraid we laughed at “ Old Newton as we grew older and 
more conceited. We never had another governess. My 
mother read and enforced diligence on Emily and me, and 
we had masters for different studies; the two boys went to 
school; and when Martyn began to emerge from babyhood, 
Emily was his teacher. 


CHAPTER III. 

AND SLOW. 

The rude wjll shuffle through with ease enough: 

Great schools best suit the sturdy and the rough. 

COWPER. 

At school Griffith was very happy, and brilliantly suc- 
cessful, alike in study and sport, though sports were not 
made prominent in those days, 'and triumphs in them were 
regarded by the elders with doubtful pride, lest they should 
denote a lack of attention to matters of greater importance. 
All his achievements were, however, poured forth by him- 
self and Clarence to Emily and me, and we felt as proud of 
them as if they had been our own. 

Clarence was industrious, and did not fail in his school 
work, but when he came home for the holidays there was a 
cowed look about him, and private revelations were made 
over my sofa that made my flesh creep. The scars were 
jstill visible, caused by having been compelled to grasp the 


16 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


bars of the grate bare-handed; and, what was worse, he 
had been suspended outside a third story window by the 
wrists, held by a school-fellow of thirteen ! 

“ But what was Grilf about?-’-’ I demanded, with hot 
tears of indignation. 

“ Oh, "Win! — that-’s what they call him, and me Slow; 
he said it would do me good. But I don^t think it did, 
Eddy. It only makes my heart beat fit to choke me when- 
ever I go near the passage window." 

I could only utter a vain wish that I had been there and 
able to fight for him, and I attacked Griff on the subject on 
the first opportunity. 

‘‘ Oh!’^ was his answer, “ it is only what all fellows have 
to bear if there^s no pluck in them. They tried it on upon 
me, you know, but I soon showed them it would not do 
• — with the cock of the nose, the flashing of the eyes, the 
clinch of the fist, that were peculiarly Griffis own; and 
when I pleaded that he might have protected Clarence, he 
laughed scornfully. As to Slow, wretched being, a fel- 
low canT help bullying him. It comes as natural as to a 
cat with a mouse. " On further and reiterated pleadings. 
Griff declared, first, that it was the only thing to do Slow 
any good, or make a man of him; and next, that he heartily 
wished that Winslow junior had been Miss Clara at once, 
as the fellows called him — it was really hard on him (Griff) 
to have such a sneaking little coward tied to him for a 
junior! 

I particularly resented the term Slow,* for Clarence had 
lately been the foremost of us in his studies; but the idea 
that learning had anything to do with the matter was de- 
rided, and as time went on, there was vexation and dis- 
pleasure at his progress not being commensurate with his 
abilities. It would have been treason to school-boy honor 
to let the elders know that though a strong, high-spirited 
popular boy like ‘‘ Win -’^ might venture to excel big bully- 
ing dunces, such fair game as poor “ Slow " could be terri- 
fied into not only keeping below them, but into doing their 
work for them. To him Cowper^s “ Tirocinium had 
only too much sad truth. 

As to his old failing, there were no special complaints, 
but in those pre-Arnoldian times no lofty code of honor 
was even ideal among school-boys, or expected of them by 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 17 

masters; shuffling was thought natural,- and allowances 
made for faults in indolent despair. 

My mother thought the navy the proper element of boy- 
hood, and her uncle the admiral promised a nomination — a 
simple affair in those happy days, involving neither exam- 
ination nor competition. Griffith was, however, one of 
those independent boys who take an aversion to whatever is 
forced on them as their fate. He was ready and successful 
with his studies, a hero among his comrades, and preferred 
continuing at school to what he pronounced, on the author- 
ity of the nautical tales freely thrown in our way, to be the 
life of a dog, only fit for the fool of the family; besides, he 
had once been out in a boat, tasted of seasickness, and 
been laughed at. My father was gratified, thinking his 
brains too good for a midshipman, and pleased that he 
should wish to tread in his own steps at Harrow and Ox- 
ford, and thus my mother could not openly regret his de- 
generacy when all the rest of us were crazy over “ Tom 
Cringle ^s Log,-^'’ and ready to envy Clarence when the offer 
was passed on to him, and he appeared in the full glory of 
his naval uniform. Not much cnoice had been offered to 
him. My mother would have thought it shameful and 
ungrateful to have no son available, my father was glad to 
have the boy’s profession fixed,, and he himself was rejoiced 
to escape from the miseries he knew only too well, and 
ready to believe that uniform and dirk would make a man 
of him at once, with all his terrors left behind. Perhaps 
the chief drawback was that the ladies would say, “ What 
a darling!” affording Griff endless o^^portunities for the 
good-humored mockery by which he concealed his own 
secret regrets. Did not even Selina Clarkson, whose red 
checks, dark-blue eyes, and jetty profusion of shining 
curls, were our notion of perfect beauty, select the little 
naval cadet for her partner at the dancing-master’s ball? 

In the first voyage, a cruise in the Pacific, all went well. 
The good admiral had carefully chosen ship and captain; 
there were an excellent set of officers, a good tone among 
the midshipmen, and Clarence, who was only twelve years 
old, was constituted the pet of the cockpit. One M in 
especial, Coles by name, attracted by Clarence’s pleasant 
gentleness, and impelled by the generosity that shields the 
weak, became his guardian friend, and protected him from 
all the roughnesses in his power. If there were a fault in 


18 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


that excellent Coles, it was that he made too much of a 
baby of his protege, and did not train him to shift for him- 
self: but wisdom and moderation are not characteristics of 
early youth. At home we had great enjoyment of his long 
descriptive letters,, which came under cover to our father at 
the Admiralty, but were chiefly intended for my benefit. 
All were proud of them, and great was my elation when I 
1 heard papa relate some fact out of them with the preface. 

My boy tells me, my boy Clarence, in the ‘ Calypso;^ he 
writes a capital letter. 

How great was our ecstasy when after three years and a 
half we had him at home again; handsome, vigorous, well- 
grown, excellently reported of, fully justifying my mother's 
assurances that the sea would make a man of him. There 
was Griffith in the fifth form and a splendid cricketer, but 
Clarence could stand up to him now, and Harrovian ex- 
ploits were tame beside stories of sharks and negroes, monk- 
eys and alligators. There was one in particular, about a 
whole boat's crew sitting down on what they thought was a 
fallen tree, but which suddenly swept them all over on their 
faces, and turned out to be a boa-constrictor, and would 
have embraced one of them if he had not had the sail of 
the boat coiled round the mast, and palmed off upon him, 
when he gorged it contentedly, and being found dead on 
the next landing, his skin was used to cover the captain's 
sea-chest. Clarence declined to repeat this tale and many 
others before the elders, and was displeased with Emily for 
referring to it in public. As to his terrors, he took it for 
granted that an officer of H.M.S. Calypso," had left 
them behind, and in fact, he naturally forgot and passed 
over what he had not been shielded from, while his 
hereditary love of the sea really made those incidental to 
his profession much more endurable than the bullying he 
had undergone at school. 

We were very happy that Christmas, and very proud of 
our boys. One evening we were treated to a box at the 
pantomime, and even I was able to go to it. We put our 
young sailor and our sister in the forefront, and believed 
that every one was as much struck with them as with the 
wonderful transformations of Goody Two Shoes under the 
wand of Harlequin. Brother-like, we might tease our one 
girl, and call her an affected little pussy cat, but our pri- 
vate opinion was that she excelled all other damsels with 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


19 


her bright blue eyes and pretty curling hair, which had the 
same chestnut shine as Griffis — enough to make us correct 
possible vanity by terming it red, though we were ready to 
fight any one else who presumed to do so. Indeed Grifi' 
had defended its hue in single combat, and his eye was 
treated for it with beefsteak by Peter in the pantry. We 
were immensely, though silently, proud of her in her white 
embroidered cambric frock, red sash and shoes, and coral 
necklace, almost an heir-loom, for it had been brought from 
Sicily in Nelson^’s days by my m other ^s poor young father. 
How parents and doctors in these -days would have shud- 
dered at her neck and arms, bare, not only in the evening, 
but by day! When she was a little younger she could so 
shrink up from her clothes that Griff, or little Martyn, in 
a mischievous mood, would put things down her back, to 
reappear below her petticoats. Once it was- a dead wasp, 
which descended harmlessly the length of her spine! She 
was a good-humored, affectionate, dear sister, my valued 
companion, submitting patiently to be eclipsed when Clar- 
ence was present, and everything to me in his absence. 
Sturdy little Martyn, too, was held by us to be the most 
promising of small boys. He was a likeness of Clarence, 
only stouter, hardier, and without the dehcate, girlish, 
wistful look; imitating Griff in everything, and rather a 
heavy handful to Emily and me when left to our care, 
though we were all the more proud of his high spirit, and 
were fast becoming a mutual admiration society. 

What, then, were our feelings when Griff, always fearless, 
dashed to the rescue of a boy under whom the ice had 
broken in St. James's Park, and held him up till assistance 
came? Martyn, who was with him, was sent home to fetch 
dry clothes and reassure my mother, which he did by dash- 
ing upstairs, shouting, “ Where's mamma? Here's Griff 
been into the water and pulled out a boy, and they don't 
know if he is drowned; but he looks — oh!" 

Even after my mother had elicited that Martyn's he 
meant the boy, and not Griff, she could not rest without 
herself going to see that our eldest was unhurt, greet him, 
and bring him home. What happy tears stood in her eyes, 
how my father shook hands with him, how we drank his 
health. after dinner, and how ungrateful I was to think 
Clarence deserved his name of Slow for having stayed at 
home to play chess with me because my back was aching. 


20 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


when he might have been winning the like honors! How 
red and grulf and shy the hero looked^ and how he entreat- 
ed no one to say any more about it! 

He would not even loolj publicly at the paragraph about 
it in the paper, only vituperating it for having made him 
into a juvenile Etonian/’’ and hoping no one from Har- 
row would guess whom it meant. 

I found that paragraph the other day in my mother^s 
desk, folded over the case of the medal of the Eoyal 
Humane Society, which Grilf affected to despise, but which, 
when he was well out of the way, used to be exhibited on 
high days and holidays. It seems now like the boundary 
mark of the golden days of our boyhood, and unmitigated 
hopes for one another. 


CHAPTER IV. 

UBI LAPSUS, QUID FECI. 

Clarence is come — false,, fleeting, perjured Clarence. 

King Bichard 111. 

There was much stagnation in the navy in those days 
in the reaction after the great war; and though our family 
had fair interest at the admiralty, it was seven months be- 
fore my brother went to sea again. To me they were very 
happy months, with my helper of helpers, companion of 
companions, who made possible to me many a little enter- 
prise that could not be attempted without him. My father 
made him share my studies, and thus they became doubly 
pleasant. And oh, ye boys! who murmur at the Waverley 
Novels as a dry holiday task, ye may envy us the zest and 
enthusiasm with which we devoured them in their freshness. 
Strangely enough, the last that we read together was tlie 
‘‘ Fair Maid of Perth. 

Clarence and his friend Coles longed to sail together, but 
Coles was shelved; and when Clarence '’s appointment came 
at last, it was to the brig Clotho,^^ Commander Brydone, 
going out in the Mediterranean Fleet, under Sir Edward 
Oodrington. My mother did not hke brigs, and my father 
did not like what he heard of the captain; but there had 
been jealous murmurs about appointments being absorbed 
by sons of officials — he durst not pick and choose; and the 


CHANTKY HOUSE. 


21 


admiral pronounced that if the lad had been spoiled on 
board the “ Calypso/^ it was time for him to rough it — a 
dictum whence there was no appeal.' 

Half a year later the tidings of the victory of Navarino 
rang through Europe, and were only half welcome to the 
conquerors; but in our household it is connected with a 
terrible recollection. Though more than half a century has 
rolled by, I shrink from dwelling on the shock that fell on 
us when my father returned from Somerset House with 
such a countenance that we thought our sailor had fallen; 
but my mother could brook the fact far less than if her son 
had died a gallant death. The Clotho was on her way 
home, and Midshipman William Clarence Winslow was to 
be tried by court-martial for insubordination, disobedience, 
and drunkenness. My mother was like one turned to stone. 
She would hardly go out of doors; she could scarcely bring 
herself to go to church; she would have had my father 
give up his situation if there had been any other means of 
livelihood. She could not talk; only when my father sighed, 
“ We should never have put him into the navy,^' she hotly 
replied : 

“ How was I to suppose that a son of mine would be like 
that?^^ 

Emily cried all day and all night. Some others would 
have felt it a relief to have cried too. In more furious lan- 
guage than parents in those days tolerated. Griff wrote to 
me his utter disbelief, and how he had punched the heads 
of fellows who presumed to doubt that it was not all a ras- 
cally, villainous plot. 

When the time came my father went down by the night 
mail to Portsmouth. He could scarcely bear to face the 
matter; but, as he said, he could not have it on his con- 
science if the boy did anything desperate for want of some 
one to look after him. Besides, there might be some ex- 
planation. 

“ Explanation,” said my mother bitterly. “ That there 
always is!” 

The “ explanation ” was this — I have put together what 
came out in evidence, what my father and the admiral 
heard from commiserating officers, and what at different 
times I learned from Clarence himself. Captain Brydone 
was one of the rough old description of naval men, good 
sailors and stern disciplinarians, but wanting in any sense 


22 


CHANTRY HOrSE. 


of moral duties toward their ship^s company. His lieuten- 
ant was of the same class, soured, moreover, by tardy pro- 
motion, and prejudiced against a gentleman-like, fair-faced 
lad, understood to have interest, and bearing a name that 
implied it. Of the other two midshipmen, one was a dull 
lad of low stamp, the other a youth of twenty, a born 
bully, with evil as well as tyrannical propensities; the crew 
conforming to severe discipline on board, but otherwise 
wild and lawless. In such a ship a youth with good habits, 
sensitive conscience, and lack of moral or physical courage, 
could not but lead a life of misery, losing everyday more of 
his self-respect and spirit as he was driven to the evil he 
loathed, dreading the consequences, temporal and eternal, 
with all his soul, yet without resolution or courage to re- 
sist. 

As everyone knows, the battle of Navarino came on sud- 
denly, almost by mistake; and though it is perhaps no ex- 
cuse, the hurly-burly and horror burst upon him at un- 
awares. Though the English loss was comparatively very 
small, the ‘‘ Clotho^"’ was a good deal exposed, and two 
men were killed — one so close to Clarence that his clothes 
were splashed with blood. This entirely unnerved him; he 
did not even know what he did, but he was not to be found 
when required to carry an order, and was discovered hidden 
away below, shuddering, in his berth, and then made some 
shallow excuse about misunderstanding orders. Whether 
this would have been brought up against him under other 
circumstances, or whether it would have been remembered 
that great men, including Charles V. and Henri IV., have 
had their moment de peur, I can not tell; but there were 
other charges. I can not give date or details. There is no 
record among the papers before me; and I can only vaguely 
recall what could hardly be read for the sense of agony, 
was never discussed, and was driven into the most obhvious 
recesses of the soul fifty years ago. There was a story 
about having let a boat^s crew, of which he was in charge, 
get drunk and over-stay their time. One of them deserted; 
and apparently prevarication ran to the bounds of perjury, 
if it did not overpass them. {N.B . — Seeing seamen flogged 
was one of the sickening horrors that haunted Clarence in 
the ‘‘ Clotho.'’^) Also, when on shore at Malta with the 
young man whose name I will not record — his evil genius 
— he was beguiled or bullied into a wine-shop, and while 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


^3 


not himself was made the catVpaw of some insolent prac- 
tical joke on the lieutenant; and when called to account, 
was so bewildered and excited as to use unpardonable lan- 
guage. 

Whatever it might have been in detail, so much was 
proved against him that he was dismissed his ship, and his 
father was recommended to withdraw him from the service, 
as being disqualified by want of nerve. Also, it was added 
more privately, that such vicious tendencies needed home 
restraint. The big bully, his corrupter, bore witness 
against him, but did not escape scot free, for one of the 
captains spoke to him in scathing tones of censure. 

Whenever my mother was in trouble, she always re- 
arranged the furniture, and a family crisis was always her- 
alded by a revolution of chairs, tables, and sofas. She could 
not sit still under suspense, and, during these terrible days 
the entire house underwent a setting to rights. Emily at- 
tended upon her, and I sat and dusted books. No doubt it 
was much better for us than sitting still. My father^s let- 
ter came by the morning mail, telling us of the sentence, 
and that he and our poor culprit, as he said, would come 
home by the Portsmouth coach in the evening. 

One room was already in order when Sir John Griffith 
kindly came to see whether he could bring any comfort to 
a spirit which would infinitely have preferred death to dis- 
honor, and was, above all, shocked at the lack of physical 
courage. Never had I liked our old admiral so well as 
when I heard how his chief anger was directed against the 
general mismanagement, and the cruelty of blighting a 
poor lad^s life when not yet seventeen. His father might 
have been 'warned to remove him without the public scan- 
dal of a court-martial and dismissal. 

The guilt and shame would have been all the same to 
us,^'’ said my mother. 

“ Come, Mary, don^t be hard on the poor fellow. In 
quiet times like these a poor boy canT look over the wall 
where one might have stolen a horse, ay, or a dozen horses, 
when there was something else to think about 

‘‘ You would not havje forgiven such a thing, sir.^^ 

It never would have happened under me, or in any 
decently commanded ship!’^ he thundered. There wasnT 
a fault to be found with him in the ‘ Calypso.^ What pos- 
sessed Winslow to let him sail with Brydone? But the serv- 


24 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


ice is going/^ etc., etc., he ran on — forgetting that it was 
he himself who had been unwilling, perhaps rightly, to 
press the Duke of Clarence for an appointment to a crack: 
frigate for his namesake. However, when he took leave he 
repeated, as he kissed my mother, “ Mind, Mary, don’t be 
set against the lad. That’s the way to make ’em desperate, 
and he is a mere boy, after all.” 

Poor mother, it was not so much hardness as a wounded 
spirit that made her look so rigid. It might have been bet- 
ter if the return could have been, delayed so as to make her 
yearn after her son, but there was nowhere for him to go, 
and the coach was already on its way. How strange it was 
to feel the wonted glow at Clarence’s return coupled with a 
frightful sense of disgrace and depression. 

The time was far on in October, and it was thus quite 
dark when the travelers arrived, having walked from Char- 
ing Cross, where the coach set them down. My father came 
in first, and my mother clung to him as if he had been ab- 
sent for weeks, while all the joy of contact with my brother 
swept over me, even though his hand hung limp in mine, 
and was icy cold like his cheeks. My father turned to him 
with one of the little set speeches of those days. Here is 
our son, Mary, who has promised me to do his utmost to 
retrieve his character, as far as may be possible, and hap- 
pily he is still young.” 

My mother’s embrace was in a sort of mechanical obedi- 
ence to her husband’s gesture, and her voice was not per- 
haps meant to be so severe as it sounded when she said, 
‘‘ You are very cold — come and warm yourself.” 

They made room for him by the fire, and my father stood 
up in front of it, giving particulars of the journey. Emily 
and Martyn were at tea in the nursery, in a certain awe 
that hindered them from coming down; indeed, Martyn 
seems to have expected to see some strange transformation 
in his brother. Indeed, there was alteration in the absence 
of the blue and gold, and, still more, in the loss of the 
lightsome, hopeful expression from the young face. 

There is a picture of Ary Scheffer’s of an old knight, 
whose son had fled from the battle^ cutting the table-cloth 
in two between himself and the unhappy youth. Like that 
stern baron’s countenance was that with which my mother 
sat at the head of the dinner-table, and we conversed by 
jerks about whatever we least cared for, as if we could hide 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


25 


our wretchedness from Peter. When the children appeared 
each gave Clarence the shyest of kisses, and they sat de- 
murely on their chairs on either side of my father to eat 
their almonds and raisins, after which we went upstairs, 
and there was the usual reading. It is curious, but though 
none of us could have told at the time what it was about, 
on turning over not long ago a copy of Head^s “ Pampas 
and Andes, one chapter struck me with an intolerable 
sense of melancholy, such as the bull chases of South Ameri- 
ca did not seem adequate to produce; and by and by I re- 
membered that it was the book in course of being read at 
that unhappy period. My mother went on as diligently as 
ever with some of those perpetual shii’ts which seemed to 
be always in hand except before company, when she used 
to do tambour work for Emily^s frocks. Clarence sat the 
whole time in a dark corner, never stirring, except that he 
now and then nodded a little. He had gone through many 
wakeful, and worse than wakeful, nights of wretched sus- 
pense, and now the worst was over! 

Family prayers took place, chill good-nights were ex- 
changed, and nobody interfered with his helping me up to 
my bedroom as usual; but there was something in his face 
to which I durst not speak, though perhaps I looked, for 
he exclaimed, HoiPt, Ned!^^ wrung my hand, and sped 
away to his own quarters higher up. Then came a sound 
which made me open my door to listen. Dear little Emily! 
She had burst out of her own room in her dressing-gown, 
and flung herself upon her brother as he was plodding wea- 
rily upstairs in the dark, clinging round his neck sobbing. 

Dear, dear Clarry! I canT bear it! I donT care. Yoidre 
my own dear brother, and they are all wicked, horrid peo- 
ple. 

That was all I heard, except bushings on Clarence^s part, 
as if the opening of my door and the thread of light from 
it warned him that there was risk of interruption. He 
seemed to be dragging her up to her own room, and I was 
left with a pang at her being foremost in comforting him. 

My father enacted that he should be treated as usual. 
But how could that be when papa himself did not know how 
changed were his own ways from his kindly paternal air of 
confidence? All trust had been undermined, so that Clar- 
ence could not cross the threshold without being required 
to state his object, and, if he overstayed the time calculated. 


26 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


he was cross-examined, and his replies received with a sigh 
of doubt. 

He hung about the house, not caring to do much, except 
taking me out in my bath-chair or languidly reading the 
most exciting books he could get; but there was no great 
stock of sensation then, except the Byronic, and from time 
to time one of my parents would exclaim, “ Clarence, I 
wonder you can find nothing more profitable to occupy 
yourself with than trash like that!^^ 

He would lay down the book without a word, and take 
up Smithes “ Wealth of Nations, or Smollett^s ‘‘ Eng- 
land — the profitable studies recommended, and speedily 
become lost in a dejected reverie, with fixed eyes and 
drooping lips. 


CHAPTER V. 

A HELPING HAND. 

Though hawks can prey through storms and winds, 

The poor bee in her hive must dwell. 

Henry Vaughan. 

In imagination the piteous dejection of our family seems 
to have lasted for ages, but on comparison of dates it is 
plain that the first lightening of the burden came in about 
a fortuight^s time. 

The firm of Frith and Castleford was coming to the front 
in the Chinese trade. The junior partner was an old com- 
panion of my lathery’s boyhood; his London abode was near 
at hand, and he was a kind of semi-godfather to both Clar- 
ence and me, having stood proxy for our nominal sponsors. 
He was as good and open-hearted a man as ever lived, and 
had always been very kind to us; but he was scarcely wel- 
come when my father, finding that he had come up alone 
to London to see about some repairs to his house, while his 
family were still in the country, asked him to dine and 
sleep — our first guest since our misfortune. 

My mother could hardly endure to receive any one, but 
she seemed glad to see my father become animated and like 
himself while Roman Catholic Emancipation was vehe- 
mently discussed, and the ruin of England hotly predicted. 
Clarence moped about silently as usual, and tried to avoid 
notice, and it was not till the next morning — after break- 


CHANTRT HOUSE. 


27 


fast, when the two gentlemen were in the dining-room, 
nearly ready to go their several ways, and I was in the win- 
dow awaiting my classical tutor — that Mr. Castleford said: 

‘‘ May I ask, Winslow, if you have any plans for that 
poor boy?^^ 

“ Edward?^^ said my father, almost willfully misunder- 
standing. “ His ambition is to be curator of something in 
the British Museum, isn’t it?” 

Mr. Castleford explained that he meant the other, and 
my father sadly answered that he hardly knew; he supposed 
the only thing was to send him to a private tutor, but where 
to find a fit one he did not know, and besides, what could 
be his aim? Sir John Griffith had said he was only fit for 
the Church, ‘‘But one does not wish to dispose of a tar- 
nished -article there. ” 

“ Certainly not,” said Mr. Castleford; and then he spoke 
words that rejoiced my heart, though they only made my 
father groan, bidding him remember that it was not so 
much actual guilt as the accident of Clarence’s being ki 
the navy that had given so serious a character to his de- 
linquencies. If he had been at school, perhaps no one 
would ever have heard of them, “ Though I don’t say,” 
added the good man, casting a new light on the subject, 
“ that it would have been better for him in the end.” 
Then, quite humbly, for he knew my mother especially had 
a disdain for trade, he asked what my father would think 
of letting him give Clarence work in the office for the pres- 
ent. “I know,” he said, “ it is not the line your family 
might prefer, but it is present occupation; and I do not 
think you could well send a youth who has seen so much of 
the world back to schooling. Besides, this would keep him 
under your own eye.” 

My father was greatly touched by the kindness, but he 
thought it right to set before Mr. Castleford the very worst 
side of poor Clarence; declaring that he durst not answer 
for a boy who had never, in spite of pains and punishment, 
learned to speak truth at home or abroad, repeating Captain 
Brydone’s dreadful report, and even adding that, what was 
most grievous of all, there was an affectation of piety about 
him that could scarely be anything but self-deceit and 
hypocrisy. “ Now,” he said, “ my eldest son, Griffith, is 
just a boy, makes no profession, is not — as I am afraid you 
have seen — exemplary at church, when Clarence sits as meek 


28 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


as a mouse^ but then he is always above-board, frank, and 
straightforward. You know where to have a high-spirited 
fellow, who will tame down, but you never know what will 
come next with the other. I sometimes wonder for what 
error of mine Providence has seen fit to give me such a son.^'’ 
Just then an important message came for Mr. Winslow, 
and he had to hurry away, but Mr. Castleford still re- 
- mained, and presently said : 

‘‘Edward, I should like to know what your eyes have 
been trying to say all this time.^' 

“ Oh, sir,-’^ I burst out, “ do give him a chance. Indeed 
he never means to do wrong. The harm is not in him. 
He would have been the best of us all if he had only been 
let alone. 

Those were exactly my own foohsh woi’ds, for which I 
could have beaten myself afterward; but Mr. Castleford 
only gave a slight grave smile, and said, “ You mean that 
your brothers real defect is in courage, moral and physi- 
cal.-’^ 


“ Yes,’^ I said, with a great effort at expressing myself. 
“ When he is frightened, or bullied, or browbeaten, he does 
not know what he is doing or saying. He is quite different 
when he is his own self; only nobody can understand. ” 

Strange that though the favored home son and nearly 
sixteen years old, it would have been impossible to utter so 
much to one of our parents. Indeed the last sentence felt 
so disloyal that the color burned in my cheeks as the door 
opened; but it only admitted Clarence, who, having heard 
the front door shut, thought the coast clear, and came in 
with a load of my books and dictionaries. 

“ Clarence,” said Mr. Castleford, and the direct address 
made him start and flush, “ supposing your father consents, 
should you be willing to turn your mind to a desk in my 
counting-house?” 

He flushed deeper red, and his fingers quivered as he held 
by the table. “ Thank you, sir. Anything — anything,” 
he said hesitatingly. 

“ Well,-’"’ said Mr. Castleford, with the kindest of voices, 
“ let us have it out. What is in your mind? You know. 
Pm a sort of godfather to you. 

“ Sir, if you would only let me have a berth on board one 
of your vessels, and go right away. ” 

“ Ay, my poor boy, that’s what you would like best. 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 29 

Vye no doubt; but look at Edward’s face there, and think 
what that would come to at the best!” 

‘‘ Yes, I know I have no right to choose,” said Clarence, 
drooping his head as before.. 

“ ’Tis not that, my dear lad,” said the good man, “ but 
that packing you oft like that, among your inferiors in 
breeding and everything else, would put an end to all hope 
of your redeeming the past — outwardly I mean, of course 
— and lodge you in a position of inequahty to your brothers 
and sister, and all — 

“ That’s done already,” said Clarence. 

“ If you were a man grown it might be so,” returned 
Mr. Castleford, but bless me, how old are you?” 

‘‘ Seventeen next 1st of November,” said Clarence. 

‘‘ Not a bit too old for a fresh beginning,” said Mr. 
Castleford cheerily. God helping you, you will be a 
brave and good man yet, my boy—” then as my master 
rang at the door — “ Come with me and look at the old 
shop. ” 

Poor Clarence muttered something unintelligible, and I 
had to own for him that he never went out without account- 
ing for himself. Whereupon our friend caused my mother 
to be hunted up, and explained to her that he wanted to 
take Clarence out with him — making some excuse about 
something they were to see together. 

That walk enabled him to say something which came 
nearer to cheering Clarence than anything that had passed 
since that sad return, and made him think that to be con- 
nected with Mr. Castleford was the best thing that could 
befall him. Mr. Castleford on his side told my father that 
he was sure that the boy was good-hearted all the time, and 
thoroughly repentant; but this had the less effect because 
plausibility, as my father called it, was one of the qualities 
that specially annoyed him in Clarence, and made him 
fear that his friend might^'be taken in. However, the 
matter was discussed between the elders, and it was deter- 
mined that this most friendly offer should be accepted ex- 
perimentally. It was impressed on Clarence, with unneces- 
sary care, that the line of life was' inferior; but that it was 
his only chance of regaining anything like a position, and 
that everything depended on his industry and integrity. 

“ Integrity!” commented Clarence, with a burning spot 


30 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


on his cheek after one of these lectures; I believe they 
think me capable of robbing the office 

We found out, too, that the senior partner, Mr. Frith, a 
very crusty old bachelor, did not like the appointment, 
and that it was made quite against his will. “ You ^11 be 
getting your clerks next from Newgate was what some 
amiable friend reported him to have said. However, Mr. 
Castleford had his way, and Clarence was to begin his work 
with the New Year, being in the meantime cautioned and 
lectured on the crime and danger of his evil propensities 
more than he could well bear. “ Oh!^'’ he groaned, “ it 
serves me right, I know that very well, but if my father 
only knew how I hate and abhor all those things — and how 
I loathed them at the very time I was dragged into them!^^ 
“ Why donH you tell him so?^^ I asked. 

That would make it no better.'’^ 

It is not so bad as if you had gone into it willingly, 
and for your own pleasure."’^ 

He would only think that another lie. 

No more could be said, for the idea of Clarence^s un- 
truthfulness and depravity had become so deeply rooted in 
our father’s mind that there was little hope of displacing 
it, and even at the best his manner was full of grave con- 
strained pity. Those few words were Clarence’s first ap- 
proach to confidence with me, but they led to more, and he 
knew there was one person who did not believe the defect 
was in the bent of his will so much as in its strength. 

All the time the prospect of the counting-house in com- 
parison with the sea was so distasteful to him that I was 
anxious whenever he went out alone, or even with Griffith, 
who despised the notion of, as he said, sitting on a high 
stool, dealing in tea, so much that he was quite capable of 
aiding and abetting in an escape from it. Two considera- 
tions, however, held Clarence back; one, the timidity of 
nature which shrunk from so violent a step, and the othe;% 
the strong affections that bound him to his home, though 
his sojourn there was so painful. He knew the misery his 
flight would have been to me; indeed I took care to let him 
see it. 

And Griffith’s return was like a fresh spring wind dis- 
persing vapors. He had gained an excellent scholarship at 
brasenose, and came home radiant with triumph, cheering 
us all up, and making a generous use of his success. He 


CHANTKY HOUSE. 


31 


was 110 letter-writer, and after learning that the disaster 
and disgrace were all too certain, he ignored the whole, and 
hailed Clarence on his return as if nothing had happened. 
As eldest son, and almost a University man, he could argue 
with our parents in a manner we never presumed on. At 
least I can not aver what he actually uttered, but probably 
it was a revised version of what he, thundered forth to me. 
‘‘ Such nonsense! such a shame to keep the poor beggar 
going about with that hang-dog look, as if he had done for 
himself for life! Why, I We known fellows do ever so 
much worse of their own accord, and nothing come of it. 
If it was found out, there might be a row and a flogging, 
and there was an end of it. As to going about mourning, 
and keeping the whole house in doleful dumps, as if there 
was never to be any good again, it was utter folly, and so 
IWe told Bill, and papa and mamma, both of them!^^ 

How this was administered, or how they took it, there is 
no knowing, but Griff would neither skate nor go to the 
theater, nor to any other diversion, without his brother; 
and used much kindly force and banter to unearth him 
from his dismal den in the back drawing-room. He was 
only let alone' when there were engagements with friends, 
and indeed, when meetings in the streets took place, by 
tacit agreement, Clarence would shrink off in the crowd as 
if not belonging to his companion; and these were the mo- 
ments that stung him into longing to flee to the river, and 
lose the sense of shame among common sailors: but there 
was always some good angel to hold him back from desper- 
ate measures — ^chiefly just then, the love between us three 
brothers, a love that never cooled throughout our lives, and 
which dear old Griff made much more apparent at this 
critical time than in the old Win and Slow days of school. 
That return of his enlivened us all, and removed the terri- 
ble constraint from our meals, bringing us back, as it were, 
to ordinary life and natural intercourse among ourselves 
and with our neighbors. 


32 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE TALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 

But when I lay upon the shore, 

Like some poor wounded thing, 

I deemed I should not evermore 
Refit my wounded wing. 

Nailed to the ground and fastened there. 

This was the thought of my despair. 

Abp. Trench. 

Clarence debut at the office was not wholly unsuc- 
cessful. He wrote a good hand, and had a good deal of 
method and regularity in his nature, together with a real 
sense of gratitude to Mr. Castleford; and this bore him 
through the weariness of his new employment, and, what 
was worse, the cold reception he met with from the other 
clerks. He was too quiet and reserved for the wilder spirits, 
too much of a gentleman for others, and in the eyes of the 
managers, and especially of the senior partner^ a disgraced, 
untrustworthy youth foisted on the office by Mr. Castleford^s 
weak partiality. That old Mr. Frith had, Clarence used 
to say, a perfectly venomous way of accepting his salute, 
and seemed always surprised and disappointed if he came 
in ill time, or showed up correct work. Indeed, the old 
man was disliked and feared by all his subordinates as 
much as his partner was loved; and while Mr. Oastleford, 
with his good-natured Irish wife and merry family, lived a 
life as cheerful as it was beneficent, Mr. Frith dwelt en- 
tirely alone, in rooms over the office, preserving the habits 
formed when his income had been narrow, and mistrustmg 
everybody. 

At the end of the first month of experiment, Mr. Castle- 
ford declared himself contented with Clarence’s industry 
and steadiness, and permanent arrangements were made, to 
which Clarence submitted with an odd sort of passive grati- 
tude, such as almost angered my father, who little knew 
how trying the position really was, nor how a certain 
homesickness for the sea-faring life was tugging at the lad^s 
heart, and making each morning’s entrance at the count- 
ing-house an effort — each merchant-captain, redolent of the 
sea, an object of envy. My mother would have sympa- 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


33 


tliized here, but Clarence feared her more than my father, 
and she was living in continual dread of some explosion, so 
that her dark curls began to show streaks of gray, and her 
face to lose its round youthfulness. 

Lent brought the question of Confirmation. Under the 
infiuence of good Bishop Blomfield, and in the wave of 
evangelical revival — ^then at its flood height — Confirmation 
was b^ecoming a more prominent subject with religious peo- 
ple than it had probably ever been in our Church, and it 
was recognized that some pr^aration was desirable beyond 
the power of repeating the Church Catechism. This was 
all that had been required of my father at Harrow. My 
mother’s godfather, a dignified clergyman, had simply 
said, ‘‘ I suppose, my dear, you know all about it;” and as 
for the admiral, he remarked, ‘‘ Confirmed! I never was 
confirmed anything but a post-captain!” 

Our incumbent was more attentive to his duties, or 
rather recognized more duties, than his predecessor. He 
preached on the subject, and formed classes, sixteen being 
then the limit of age — since the idea of the vow having be- 
come far more prominent than that of the blessing, it was 
held that full development of the will and understanding 
was needful. 

I was of the requisite age, and my father spoke to the 
clergyman, who called,- and, as I could not attend the 
classes, gave me books to read and questions to answer. 
Clarence read and discussed the questions with me, showing 
so much more insight into them, and fuller knowledge of 
Scripture than I possessed, that I exclaimed, ‘ ^ Why should 
you not go up for Confirmation too?’ ’ 

‘‘ No,” he answered mournfully. I must take no more 
vows if I can’t keep them. It would just be profane. ” 

I had no more to say; indeed, my parents held the same 
view. It was good Mr. Castleford who saw things differ- 
ently. He was a clergyman’s son, and had been bred up in 
the old orthodoxy, which was just beginning to put forth 
fresh shoots, and, as a quasi-godfather, he held himself 
bound to take an interest in our religious life, while the 
sponsors, whose names stood in the family Bible, and whose 
spoons reposed in the plate-chest, never troubled themselves 
on the matter. I remember Clarence leaning over me and 
saying, Mr. Castleford thinks I might be confirmed. He 
says it is not so much the promise we make as of coming to 
2 


34 


CHAl^TRY HOUSE. 


Almighty God for strength to keep what we are bound by 
already! He is going to speak to papa."’^ 

Perhaps no one except Mr. Castleford could have pre- 
vailed over the fear of profanation in the mind of my father, 
who was, in his old-fashioned way, one of the most reverent 
of men, and could not bear to think of holy things being 
approached by one under a stigma, nor of exposing his son 
to add to his guilt by taking and breaking further pledges. 
However, he was struck by his friend^s arguments, and I 
heard him telling my mother that when he had wished to 
wait till there had been time to prove sincerity of repent- 
ance by a course of steadiness, the answer had been that it 
was hard to require strength, while denying the means of 
grace. My mother was scarcely convinced, but as he had 
consented she yielded without a protest; and she was really 
glad that I should have Clarence at my side to help 
me at the ceremony. The clergyman was applied to, 
and consented to let Clarence attend the classes, where 
his knowledge, comprehension, and behavior were exem- 
plary, so that a letter was written to my father expressive 
of perfect satisfaction with him. There, said my fa- 
ther, “ I knew it would be so! It is not that which I 
want. 

The Confirmation seemed at the time a very short and 
perfunctory result of onr preparation; and, as things were 
conducted or misconducted then, involved so much crowd- 
ing and distress that I recollect very little but clinging to 
Clarence’s arm under a strong sense of my infirmities — the 
painful attempt at kneeling, and the big outstretched lawn 
sleeves while the blessing was pronounced over six heads at 
once, and then the struggle back to the pew, while the 
silver-pokered apparitor looked grim at us, as though the 
maimed and halt had no business to get into the way. Yet 
this was a great advance upon former Confirmations, and 
the bishop met my father afterward, and inquired most 
kindly after his lame son. 

We were disappointed, and felt that we could npt attain 
to the feelings in the Confirmation poem in the “ Christian 
Year ” — Mr. Castleford ’s gift to me. Still, I believe that, 
though encumbered with such a drag as myself, Claretice, 
more than I did, 

‘ • Felt Him how strong, our hearts how frail, 

And longed to own Him to the death. ’’ 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


35 


But the evangelical belief that dejection ought to be fol- 
lowed by a full sense of pardon and assurance of salvation 
somewhat perplexed and dimmed our Easter Communion. 
For one short moment, as Clarence turned to help my fa- 
ther lift me up from the altar-rail, I saw his face and eyes 
radiant with a wonderful rapt look; but ir passed only too 
fast, and the more than ordinary glimpse his spiritual nat- 
ure had had made him all the more sad afterward, when he 
said, ‘‘ I would give everything to know that there was any 
steadfastness in my purpose to lead a new life. 

‘‘ But you are leading a new life.^^ 

“ Only because there is no one to bully me,” he said. 
Still, there had been no reproach against him all the time 
he had been at Frith and Castleford^s, when suddenly we 
had a great shock. 

Parties were running very high, and there were scurrilous 
papers about, which my father perfectly abhorred; and one 
day at dinner, when declaiming against something he had 
seen, he laid down strict commands that none should be 
brought into the house. Then, glancing at Clarence, 
something possessed him to say, “ You have not been buy- 
ing any. ^ 

“ No, sir,” Clarence answered; but a few minutes later, 
when w'e were alone together, the others having left him 
to help me upstairs, he exclaimed, Edward, what is to be 
done? I didnT buy it; But there is one of those papers in 
my great-coat pocket. Pollard threw it on my desk; and 
there was something in it that I thought would amuse 
you. ” 

Oh! why didnT you say so?’^ 

There I am again! I simply could not, with his eye on 
me! Miserable being that I am! Oh, where is the spirit 
of ghostly strength?” 

“ Helping you now to take it to papa in the study and 
explain!” I cried; but the struggle in that tall fellow was 
as if he had been seven years old instead of seventeen, ere 
he put his hand over his face and gave me his arm to come 
out into the hall, fetch the paper, and make his confession. 
Alas! we were too late. The coat had been moved, the 
paper had fallen out; and there stood my mother with it in 
her hand, looking at Clarence with an awful stony face of 
mute grief and reproach, while he stammered forth what 
he had said before, and that he was about to give it to my 


36 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


father. She turned away, bitterly, contemptuously indig- 
nant and incredulous; and my corroboration only served to 
give both her and my father a certain dread of Clarence ^s 
influence over me, as though I had been either deceived or 
induced to back him in deceiving them. The unlucky in- 
cident plunged him back into the depths, just as he had 
begun to emerge. Slight as it was, it was no trifle to him, 
in spite of Grififith^s explanation, ‘‘ How absurd! Is a fel- 
low to be bound to give an account of everything he looks 
at as if he were six years old? Catch me letting my 
mother pry into my pockets! But you are too meek. Bill; 
you perfectly invite them to make a row about nothing !^^ 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE INHEEITANCE. 

For he that needs five thousand pounds to live 
Is full as poor as he that needs but five. 

But if thy son can make ten pound his measure, 

Then all thou addest may be called his treasure. 

George Herbert. 

It was in the spring of 1839 that my father received a 
lawyer^ s letter announcing the death of James Winslow, 
Esquire, of Chantry House, Earlscombe, and inviting him, 
as heir-at-law, to be present at the funeral and opening of 
the will. The surprise to us all was great. Even my 
mother had hardly heard of Chantry House itself, far less 
as a possible inheritance; and she had only once seen James 
Winslow. He was the last of the elder branch of the fam- 
ily, a third cousin, and older than my father, who had 
known him in times long past. When they had last met, 
the Squire of Chantry House was a married man, with 
more than one child; my father a young barrister; and 
as one lived entirely in the country and the other in town, 
without any special congeniality, no intercourse had been 
kept up, and it was a surprise to hear that he had left no 
surviving children. My father greatly doubted -whether 
being heir-at-law would prove to avail him anything, since 
it was likely that so distant a relation would have made a 
will in favor of some nearer connection on his wife^s or 
mother’s side. He was very vague about Chantiy House, 
only knowing that it was supposed to be a fair property. 


CHAXTRY HOUSE. 


37 


and he would hardly consent to take Griffith with him by 
the Western Royal Mail, warning him and all the rest of 
us that our expectations would be disappointed. 

Nevertheless we looked out the gentlemen ^s seats in 
‘ ‘ Paterson '’s Road Book, ” and after much research, for 
Chantry House lay far oft from the main road, we came 
upon — 

Chantry House, Earlscombe, the seat of tTames Wins- 
low, Esquire, once a religious foundation; beautifully situ- 
ated on a rising ground, commanding an extensive pros- 
pect — 

“ A religious foundation cried Emily. “ It will be a 
dear delicious old abbey, all Gothic architecture, with clois- 
ters, and ruins, and ghosts. 

“ Ghosts said my mother, severely, “ what has put 
such nonsense into your head?^^ 

Nevertheless Emily made up her mind that Chantry 
House would be another Melrose, and went about repeating 
the moonlight scene in the Lay of the Last Minstrel ” 
whenever she thought no one was there to laugh at her. 

My father and Griffith returned with the good news that 
there was no mistake. Chantry House was really his own, 
with the estate belonging to it, reckoned at £5000 a year, 
exclusive of a handsome provision to Miss Selby, the niece 
of the late Mrs. Winslow, a spinster of a certain age, who 
had lived with her uncle, and now proposed to remove to 
Bath. Mr. Winslow had, it appeared, lost his only son as 
a school-boy, and his daughters, like their mother, had been 
consumptive. He had always been resolved that the estate 
should continue in the family; but reluctance to see any . 
one take his son^s place had withheld him from making any 
advances to my father; and for several years past he had 
been in broken health with failing faculties. 

Of course there was much elation. Griff described as 
charming the place, perched on the southern slope of a 
wooded hill, with a broad fertile valley lying spread out 
before it, and the woods behind affording every promise of 
sport. The house, my father said, was good, odd, and ir- 
regular, built at different times, but quite habitable, and 
with plenty of furniture, though he opined that mamma 
would think it needed modernizing, to which she replied 


38 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


that our present chattels would make a great difference; 
whereat my father, looking at the effects of more than 
twenty years of London blacks, gave a little whistle, for she 
was always the econouiical one of the pair. 

Emily, with glowing cheeks and eager eyes, entreated to 
know whether it was Gothic, and had a cloister! Papa 
nipped her hopes of a cloister, but there were Gothic win- 
dows and door- way, and a bit of ruin in the garden, a frag- 
ment of the old chapel. 

My father could not resign his office without notice, and, 
besides, he wished Miss Selby to have leisure for leading her 
home of many years; after which there would be a few 
needful repairs. The delay was not a great grievance to 
any of us except little Martyn. We were much more cock- 
ney than almost any one is in these days of railways. We 
were unusually devoid of kindred on both sides, my father’s 
holidays were short, I was not a very movable commodity, 
and economy forbade long journys, so that we had never 
gone further than Ramsgate, where we claimed a certain 
lodging-house as a sort of right every summer. 

Real country was as much unknown to us as the back- 
woods. My father alone had been born and bred to village 
life and habits, for my mother had spent her youth in a 
succession . of seaport towns, frequented by men-of-war. 
We heard, too, that Chantry House was very selcuded, with 
only a few cottages near at hand— a mile and a half from 
the church and village of Earlscombe, three from the tiny 
country town of Wattlesea, four from the place where the 
coach passed, connecting it with the civilization of Bath 
and Bristol, from each of which places it was about half a. 
day’s distance, according to the measures of those times. 
It was a sort of banishment to people accustomed to the 
stream of life in London; and though the consequence and 
importance derived from being raised to the ranks of the 
Squirearchy were agreeable, they were a dear purchase at 
the cost of being out of reach of all our friends and ac- 
quaintances, as well as of other advantages. 

To my father, however, the retirement from his many 
years of drudgery was really welcome, and he had preserved 
enough of country tastes to rejoice that it was, as he said, 
a clear duty to reside on his ‘estate and look after his prop- 
erty. My mother saw his relief in the prospect, and sup- 
pressed her sighs at the dislocation of her life-long habits. 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


39 


and the loss of intercourse with the acquaintance whom 
separation raised to the rank of intimate friends, even her 
misgivings as to butchers, bakers, and grocers in the wilder- 
ness, and still worse, as to doctors for me. 

‘‘ Humph said the admiral, “ the boy will be all the 
better without them. ” 

And so I was; I can^’t say they were the subject of much 
regret, but I was really sorry to leave our big neighbor, the 
British Museum, where there were good friends who always 
made me welcome, and encouraged me in studies of coins 
and heraldry, wliich were great resources to me, so that I 
used to spend hours there, and was by no means willing to 
resign my ambition of obtaining an appointment there, 
when I heard my father say that he was especially thankful 
for his good fortune because it enabled him to provide for 
me. There were lessons, too, from masters in languages, 
music, and drawing, which Emily and I shared, and which 
she had just begun to value thoroughly. We had filled 
whole drawing-books with wriggling twists of foliage in 
B B B marking-pencil, and had just been promoted to 
water-colors; and she was beginning to sing very prettily. 
I feared, too, that I should no longer have a chance of ri- 
valing Griffith’s university studies. All this, with my sis- 
ter’s girl friends, and those kind people who used to drop 
in to play chess, and otherwise amuse me, would all be left 
behind; and, sorest of all, Clarence, who, whatever he was 
in the eyes of others, had grown to be my mainstay during 
this last year. He it was who fetched me from the Mu- 
seum, took me into the gardens, helped me up and down-, 
stairs, spared no pains to rout out whatever my fanciful 
pursuits required from shops in the city, and, in very truth, ; 
spoiled me through all his hours that were free from busi- 
ness, besides being my most perfect sympathizing and; 
understanding companion. , 

I feared, too, that he would be terribly lonesome, though 
of late he had been less haunted by longings for the sea, 
had made some way with his fellows, and had been com- 
mended by the managing-clerk; and it was painful to find 
the elders did not grieve on their own account at parting 
with him. My mother told the admiral that she thought 
it would be good for Mr. Winslow’s spirits not to be contin- 
ually reminded of his trouble; and my father might be 
heard confiding to Mr. Castleford that the separation might 


40 


CHAl^TKY HOUSE. 


be good for both her and her son, if only the lad could be 
trusted. To which that good man replied by giving him 
an excellent character; but was only met by a sigh, and 
“ Well, we shall see!^^ 

Clarence was to be lodged with Peter, whose devotion 
would not extend to following us into barbarism, where, 
as he told us, he understood there was no such thing as a 
“ harea,^^ and master would have to kill his own mutton. 

Peter had been tranquilly engaged to Gooch for years 
untold. They were to be transformed into Mr. and Mrs. 
Robson, with some small appointment about the Law 
Courts for him, and a lodging-house for her, where Clar- 
ence was to abide, my mother feeling secure that neither 
his health, his morals, nor his shirts could go much astray 
without her receiving warning thereof. 

Meanwliile, by the help of an antiquarian friend of my 
father, Mr. Stafford, who was great in county history, I 
hunted up in the Museum library all I could discover about 
our new possession. 

The Chantry of St. Cecily at Earlscombe, in Somerset- 
shire, had, it appeared, been founded and endowed by 
Dame Isabel d^Oyley, in the year of grace 1434, that con- 
stant prayers might be offered for the souls of her husband 
and son, slain in the French wars. The j^oor lady^’s inten- 
tions, . which to our Protestant minds appeared rather 
shocking than otherwise, had been frustrated at the break- 
up of such establishments, when the Chantry, and the es- 
tate that maintained its clerks and bedesmen, was granted 
to Sir Harry Power, from whom, through two heiresses, it 
had come to the Fordyces, the last of whom, by. name Mar- 
garet, had died childless, leaving the estate to her step-son, 
Philip AVinslow, our ancestor. 

Moreover, we learned that a portion of the building was 
of ancient date, and that there was an ‘‘ interesting frag- 
ment of the old chapel in the grounds, which our good 
friend promised himself the pleasure of investigating on 
his first holiday. 

To add to our newly acquired sense of consideration and 
of high pedigree, the family chariot, after taking Miss 
Selby to Bath, came up post to London to be touched up 
at the coach-builder ^s, have the escutcheon altered so asHo 
impale the Griffith coat instead of the Selby, and finally to 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 41 

convey us to our new abode, in preparation for which all 
its boxes came to be packed. 

A chariot! You young ones have as little notion of one 
as of a British war-chariot armed with scythes. Yet people 
of a certain grade were as sure to keep their chariot as 
their silver tea-pot; indeed we knew one young couple who 
started in life with no other habitation, but spent their time 
as nomads, in visits to their relations and friends, for visits 
were visits then. 

The capacities of a chariot were considerable. Witliin, 
there was a good-sized seat for the principal occupants, and 
outside a dickey behind, and a driving box before, though 
sometimes there was only one of these, and that transfer- 
able. The boxes were calculated to hold family luggage 
on a six months^ tour. There they lay on the spare-room 
floor, ready to be packed, the first earnest of our new pos- 
sessions — except perhaps the five-pound note my father 
gave each of us four elder ones, on the day the balance at 
the bank was made over to him. There was the imperial, 
a grand roomy receptacle, which was placed on the top of 
the carriage, and would not always go upstairs in small 
houses; the cap-box, which fitted into a curved place in 
front of the windows, and could not stand alone, but had 
a frame to support it; two long narrow boxes with the 
like infirmity of standing, which fitted in below; square 
ones under each seat; and a drop box fastened jon behind. 
There were pockets beneath each window, and, curious 
relic in name and nature of the time when every gentleman 
carried his weapon, there was the sword-case, an excres- 
cence behind the back of the best seat, accessible by lifting 
a cushion, where weapons used to be carried, but where in 
our peacefid times travelers bestowed their luncheon and 
their books. 

Our chariot was black above, canary yellow below, beau- 
tifully varnished, and with our arms blazoned on each door. 
It was lined with dark blue leather and cloth, picked out 
with blue and yellow lace in accordance with our liveries, 
and V as a gorgeous spectacle. I am afraid Emily did not 
share in Mistress Gilpin ^s humility when 

“ The chaise was brought, 

But yet was not allowed 
To drive up to the door, lest all 
Should say that she was proud!” , 


43 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


It was then that Emily and I each started a diary to re- 
cord the events of our new life. Hers flourished by fits 
and starts; but I having perforce moi’e leisure than she, 
mine has gone on with few interruptions till the present 
time, and is the backbone of this narrative, which I com- 
ifile and condense from it and other sources before destroy- 
ing it. 


CHAPTER YIII. 

THE OLD HOUSE. 

Your history whither are you spinning? 

Can you do nothing but describe? 

A house there is, and that’s enough! 

Gray. 

How we did enjoy our journey, when the wrench from 
our old home was once made. We did not even leave Clar- 
ence behind, for Mr. Castleford had given him a holiday, 
so that he might not appear to be kept at a distance, as if 
under a cloud, and might help me through our travels. 

My mother and I occupied the inside of the carriage, with 
Emily between us at the outset; but when we were off the 
London stones she was often allowed to make a third on 
the dickey with Clarence and Martyn, whose ecstatic heels 
could be endured for the sake of the free air and the view. 
Of course we posted, and where there were severe hills we 
indulged in four horses. The varieties of the jackets of 
our post-boys, blue or yellow, as supposed to indicate the 
politics of their inns, were interesting to us, as everything 
was interesting then. Otherwise their equipment was ex- 
actly alike — neat drab corduroy breeches and top-boots, 
and hats usually white, and they were all boys, though the 
red faces and grizzled hair of some looked as if they had 
faced the weather for at least fifty years. 

It was a beautiful August, and the harvest-fields were a 
sight perfectly new, filling us with rapture unspeakable. 
At every hill which offered an excuse, oui outsiders were 
on their feet, thrusting in their heads and hands to us 
within with exclamations of delight, and all sorts of dis- 
coveries — really new to us three younger ones. Ears of 
corn, bearded barley, graceful oats,* poppies, corn-flowers. 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


43 


were all delicious novelties to Emily and me, though Grilf 
.and my father laughed at our ecstasies, and my mother 
occasionally objected to the wonderful accumulation of curi- 
osities thrust into her lap or the door-pockets, and tried 
to persuade Martyn that rooks^ wings, dead hedge-hogs, 
sticks and stones of various merits, might be found at 
Earlscombe, until Clarence, by the judicious purchase of a 
basket at Salisbury, contrived to satisfy all parties and safe- 
ly dispose of the treasures. The objects that stand out in 
my memory on that journey were Salisbury Spire, and a 
long hill where the hedge-bank was one mass of the exquisite 
rose-bay willow herb — a perfect revelation to our city-bred 
eyes; but indeed, the whole route was like one panorama 
to us of Allegro'’^ and other descriptions on which we 
had fed. For in those days we were much more devoted to 
poetry than is the present generation, which has a good 
deal of false shame on that head. 

Even dining and sleeping at an inn formed a pleasing 
novelty, though we did not exactly sympathize with Martjn 
when he dashed in at breakfast exulting in having witnessed 
the killing of a pig. As my father observed, it was too 
like realizing Peters’s forebodings of our return to savage 
life. 

Demonstrations were not the fashion of these times, and 
there was a good deal of dull discontent and disaffection in 
the air, so that no tokens of welcome were prepared for us 
— not even a peal of bells; nor indeed should we have heard 
them if they had been rung, for the church was a mile and 
a half beyond the house, with a wood between cutting off 
the sound, except in certain winds. We did not miss a re- 
ception, which would rather have embarrassed us. We be- 
gan to think it was time to arrive, and my father believed 
we were climbing the last hill, when, just as we had passed 
a remarkably pretty village and church, Griffith called out 
to say that we wore on our own ground. He had made 
his researches with the game-keeper while my father was 
busy with the solicitor, and could point to our boundary 
wall a little below the top of the hill on the northern side. 
He informed us that the place we had passed was Hillside 
— Fordyce property — but this was Earlscombe, our own. 
It was a great stony bit of pasture with a few scattered 
trees, but after the fiat summit was past, the southern side 
was all beech wood, where a gate admitted us into a dnve 


44 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


cut out ill a slant down the otherwise steep descent, and 
coming out into an open space. And there we were! ' 

The old house was placed on the widest part of a kind of 
shelf or natural, terrace, of a sort of amphitheater shape, 
with wood on either hand, but leaving an interval clear in 
the midst broad enough for house and gardens, with a gen- 
tle green slope behind, and a much steeper one in front, 
closed in by the beech-woods. The house stood as it were 
sideways, or had been made to do so by later inhabitants. 
I know this is very long-winded, but there have been such 
alterations that without minute description this narrative 
will be unintelligible. 

The aspect was northward so far as the lie of the ground 
was concerned, but the house stood across. The main body 
was of the big symmetrical Louis XIV. style — or, as it is 
now the fashion to call it. Queen Anne — brick, with stone 
quoins, big sash-windows, and a great square hall in the 
midst, with the chief rooms opening into it. The principal 
entrance had been on the north, with a huge f ront'door and 
a flight of stone steps, and just space enough for a gravel 
coach ring before the rapid grassy descent. Later consti- 
tutions, however, must have eschewed that northern front 
door, and later nerves that narrow verge, and on the east- 
ern front had been added that Gothic porch of which Em- 
ily had heard — and a flagrantly modern Gothic porch it 
was, flanked by two comical little turrets, with loop-holes, 
from which a thread-paper or Tom Thumb might have de- 
fended it. Otherwise it resembled a church porch, except 
for the formidable points of a sham portcullis; but there 
was no denying that it greatly increased the comfort of the 
house, with its two sets of heavy doors, and the seats on 
either side. The great hall door had been closed up, plas- 
tered over within, and rendered inoffensive. Toward the 
west there was another modern addition of drawing and 
dining-rooms, and handsome bed-chambers above, in Gothic 
taste, i. e . , with pointed arches filled up with glass over the 
sash-windows. The drawing-room was very pretty, with a 
glass door at the end leading into an old-fashioned green- 
house, and two French windows to the south opening upon 
the lawn, which soon began to slope upward, curving, as I 
said, like an amphitheater, and was always shady and shel- 
tered, tilting its flower-beds toward the house as if to display 
them. The dining-room had, in like manner, one west 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


45 


and two north windows, the latter commanding a grand 
view over the green meadow-land below, dotted with round 
knolls, and rising into blue hills beyond. AVe became proud 
of counting the villages and church towers we could see 
from thence. 

There was a still older portion, more ancient than the 
square corjps de logis, and built of the cream-colored stone 
of the country. It was at the south-eastern angle, where 
the ground began sloping so near the house that this wing 
— if it may so be called — containing two good-sized rooms 
nearly on a level with the upper floor, h^ nothing below 
but some open stone vaultings, under which it was only 


Dininj; 

Room 


Drawing 


Study 


1 . 


Fire Place Hall 


Book Edward’s] 


I Room I R oo m | R c 


I • = 

I Clarenoc’s _ 


Ruin 


T 

Porch 


MuUton 

Rooms 




just possible for my tall brothers to stand upright, at the 
innermost end. These opened into the cellars which, no 
doubt, belonged to the fifteenth-century structure. There 
seemed to have once been a door and two or three steps to 
the ground, which rose very close to the southern end; but 
this had been walled up. The rooms had deep mullioned 
windows east and west, and very handsome groined ceilings, 
and were entered by two steps down from the gallery round 
the upper part of the hall. There was a very handsome 
double staircase of polished oak, shaped like a Y, the stem 
of which began just opposite the original front door — mak- 
ing us wonder if people knew what draughts were in the 
days of Queen Anne, and remember Mme. de Maintenon^s 
complaint that health was sacrificed to symmetry. Not far 
from this oldest portion were some broken bits of wall and 


46 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


stumps of columns, remnants of the chapel, and prettily 
wreathed with ivy and clematis. We rejoiced in such a 
pretty and distinctive ornament to our garden, and never 
troubled ourselves about the desecration; and certainly ours 
was one of the most delightful gardens that ever existed, 
what with green turf, bright flowers, shapely shrubs, and 
the grand beech-trees inclosing it with their stately white 
pillars, green foliage, and the russet arcades beneath them. 
The stillness was wonderful to ears accustomed to the Lon- 
don roar — almost a new sensation. Emily was found, as 
she said, “ listening to the silence;’^ and my father declared 
that no one could guess at the sense of rest that it gave him. 

Of space within there was plenty, though so much had 
been sacrificed to the hall and staircase; and this was ap- 
parently the cause of the modern additions, as the original 
sitting-rooms, wainscoted and double-doored, were rather 
small for family requirements. One of these, once the din- 
ing-room, became my father’s study, where he read and 
wrote, saw his tenants, and by and by acted as justice of 
the peace. The opposite one, toward the garden, was 
termed the book-room. Here Martyn was to do his lessons, 
and Emily and I carry on our studies, and do what she 
called keeping up her accomplishments. My couch and 
appurtenances abode there, and it was to be my retreat 
from company — or on occasion could be made a supple- 
mentary drawing-room, as its fittings showed it had been 
the parlor. It communicated with another chamber, which 
became my own — sparing the difficulties that stairs always 
presented; and beyond lay, niched under the grand stair- 
case, a tiny light closet, a passage-room, where my mother 
put a bed for a man-servant, not liking to leave me entirely 
alone on the ground-floor. It led to a passage to the gar- 
den door, also to my mother’s den, dedicated to housewifely 
cares and stores, and ended at the back stairs, descending 
to the servants’ region. This was very old, handsomely 
vaulted with stone, and owing to the fall of the ground, 
had ample space for light on the north side — where, beyond 
the drive, the descent was so rapid as to afford Martyn in- 
finite delight in rolling down, to the horror of all beholders 
and the detriment of his white duck trousers. 

I don’t know much about the upper story, so I spare you 
that. Emily had a hankering for one of the pretty old 
mullioned-windowed rooms — the mullion chambers, as she 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


47 


named them; but Griff pounced on them at once, the inner 
for his repose, the outer for his guns and studies — not 
smoking, for young men were never permitted to smoke 
within-doors, nor indeed in any home society. The choice 
of the . son and heir was undisputed, and he proceeded to 
settle his possessions in his new domains, where they made 
an imposing appearance. 


CHAPTEE IX. 

RATS. 

As louder and louder, drawing near, 

The gnawing of their teeth he could hear. 

Southey. 

What a ridiculous old fellow that Chapman is,’^ said 
Griff, coming in from a conference with the gaunt old man 
who acted as keeper to our not very extensive preserves. 
“ I told him to get some gins for the rats in my rooms, and 
he shook his absurd head like any mandarin, and said, 
^ There bainT no trap as will rid you of them kmd of var- 
mint, sir. 

‘‘ Of course,^ ^ my father said, “ rats are part of the en- 
tail of an old house. You may reckon on them. 

‘‘ Those rooms of vours are the very place for them,^^ 
added my mother. ‘‘I only hope they will not infest the 
rest of the house. 

To which Griff rejoined that they perpetrated the most 
extraordinary noises he had ever heard from rats, and told 
Emily she might be thankful to him for taking those rooms, 
for she would have been frightened out of her little wits. 
He meant, he said, to get a little terrier, and have a thor- 
ough good rat hunt, at which Martyn capered about in irre- 
sistible ecstasy. 

This, however, was deferred by the unwilhngness of old 
Chapman, of whom even Griff was somewhat in awe. His 
fame as a sportsman had to be made, and he had had only 
such practice as could be attained % shooting at a mark 
ever since he had been aware of his coming gieatness. So 
he was desirous of conciliating Chapman, and not getting 
laughed at as the London young gentleman who could not 
hit a hay-stack. My father, who had been used to carry- 


48 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


ing a gun in his younger days, was much amused, in his 
quiet way, at seeing Griff watch Chapman off on his rounds, 
and then betake himself to the locality most remote from 
the keeper '’s ears to practice on the rook or crow. Mart}^! 
always ran after him, having solemnly promised not to 
touch the gun, and to keep behind. He was too good-nat- 
ured to send the little fellow back, though he often tried to 
elude the pursuit, not wishing for a witness to his attempts; 
and he never invited Clarence, who had had some experi- 
ence of curious game but never mentioned it. 

Clarence devoted himself to Emily and me, tugging my 
garden-chair along all the paths where it would go without 
too much jolting, and when I had had enough, exploring 
those hanging woods, either with her or on his own account. 
They used to come home with their hands full of llowers, 
and this resulted in a vehement attack of botany — a taste 
that has lasted all our lives, together with the hortus siccus 
to which we still make additions, though there has been a 
revolution there as well as everywhere else, and the Linnaean 
system we learned so eagerly from Martinis “ Letters is 
altogether exploded and antiquated. Still, my sister re- 
fuses to own the scientific merits of the natural system, and 
can point to school-bred and lectured young ladies who 
have no notion how to discover the name or nahire of a live 
plant. 

On the Friday after our arrival the noises had been so 
fearful that Griff had been exasperated into going off across 
the hills, accompanied by his constant shadow, Martyn, in 
search of the professional rat-catcher of the neighborhood, 
in spite of Chapman^s warning — that Tom Petty was the 
biggest rascal in the neighborhood, and a regular out and 
out poacher; and as to the noises — he couldnT ‘‘ tackle the 
like of they. After reveling in the beauty of the beech- 
woods as long as was good for me or for Clarence, I was* 
left in the garden to sketch the ruin, while my two compan- 
ions started on one of their exploring expeditions. 

It was getting late enough to think of going to prepare 
for the six-o^ clock dinner when Emily came forth alone 
from the path between the trees, announcing — ‘‘ An ad- 
venture, Edward! We have had such an adventure. 

“ Whereas Clarence 

“ Gone for the doctor! Oh, no; Griff hasnT shot any- 
body. He is gone for the rat-catcher, you know. It is a 


CHAIsTRY HOUSE. 49 

poor little herd-boy, who tumbled out of a tree; and oh! 
such a sweet, beautiful, young lady — just like a book!^^ 

When Emily became less incoherent, it appeared that on 
coming out on the bit of common above the wood, as she 
and Clarence were halting on the brow of the hill to admire 
the view, they heard a call for help, and hurrying down in 
the direction whence it proceeded they saw a stunted ash- 
tree, beneath which were a young lady and a little child 
bending over a village lad who lay beneath moaning 
piteously. The girl, whom Emily described as the most 
beautiful creature she ever saw, explained that the boy, who 
had been herding the cattle scattered around, had been 
climbing the tree, a limb of which had broken with him. 
She had seen the fall from a distance, and hurried up; but 
she hardly knew what to do, for her little sister was too 
young to be sent in quest of assistance. Clarence thought one 
leg seriously injured, and as the young lady seemed to know 
the boy, offered to carry him home. School officers were 
yet in the future; children were set to work almost as soon 
as they could walk, and this little fellow was so light and 
thin as to shock Clarence when he had been taken up on 
his back, for he weighed quite a trifle. The young lady 
showed the way to a wretched little cottage, where a bigger 
girl had just come in with a sheaf of corn freshly gleaned 
poised on her head. They sent her to fetch her mother, 
and Clarence undertook to go for a doctor, but to the sur- 
prise and horror of Emily, there was a demur. Something 
was said of old Molly and her ‘‘ ile and “ yarbs,^^ or per- 
haps madame could step round. When Clarence, on this 
being translated to him, pronounced the case beyond such 
treatment, it was explained outside the door that this was 
a terribly poor family, and the doctor would not come to 
parish patients for an indeflnite time after his summons, 
besides which, he lived at Wattlesea. ‘^Indeed, mamma 
does almost all the doctoring with her medicine chest, 
said the girl. 

On which Clarence declared that he would let the doctor 
know that he himself would be responsible for the cost of 
the attendance, and set off for Wattlesea, a kind of town 
village in the flat below. He could not get back till dinner 
was half over, and came in alarmed and apologetic; but he 
had nothing worse to encounter than Griffis unmerciful 
banter (or, as you would call it, chaff) about his knight- 


50 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


errantry^ and Emily^s lovely heroine in the sweetest of cot- 
tage bonnets. 

Griif could be slightly tyrannous in his merry mockery, 
and when he found that on the ensuing day Clarence pro- 
posed to go and inquire after the patient, he made such 
wicked fun of the expectations the pair entertained of hear- 
ing the sweet cottage bonnet reading a tract in a silvery 
voice through the hovel window, that he fairly teased and 
shamed Clarence out of starting till the renowned Tom 
Petty arrived and absorbed all the three brothers, and even 
their father, in delights as mysterious to me as to Eniily. 
How she shrieked when Martyn rushed triumjDhantly into 
the room where we were arranging books with the huge 
patriarch of all the rats dangling by hi& tail ! Three hope- 
ful families were destroyed; rooms, vaults, and cellars ex- 
amined and cleared; and Petty declared the race to be ex- 
terminated, picturesque ruffian that he was, in his shapeless 
hat, rusty velveteen, long leggings, a live ferret in his 
pocket, and festoons of dead rats over his shoulder. 

Chapman, who regarded him as much as the ferret did 
the rat, declared that the rabbits and hares would suffer 
from letting “ that there chap show his face here on any 
plea; and, moreover, gave a grunt very like a scoff, at the 
idea of slumbers in the mullion rooms (as they were called) 
being secured by his good offices. 

And Chapman was right. The unaccountable noises 
broke out again — screaming, wailing, sobbing — sounds 
scarcely within the power of cat or rat, but possibly the 
effect of the wind in the old building. At any rate. Griff 
could not stand them, and declared that sleep was impossi- 
ble when the wind was in that quarter, so that he must shift 
his bedroom elsewhere, though he still wished to retain the 
outer apartment, which he had taken pleasure in adorning 
with his special possessions. My mother would scarcely 
have tolerated such fancies in any one else, but Griff had 
his privileges. 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


51 


CHAPTER X. 

OUR TUNEFUL CHOIR. 

The church has been whitewashed, but right long ago, 

As the cracks and the dinginess amply doth show; 

About the same time that a strange petrifaction 
Confined the incumbent to mere Sunday action. 

So many abuses in this place are rife, 

The only church things giving token of life 
Are the singing within and the nettles without — 

Both equally rampant without any doubt, 

F. R. Havergal. 

All Griff is teasing could not diminish — nay, rather in- 
creased — Emily^s excitement in the hope of seeing and iden- 
tifying the sweet cottage bonnet at church on Sunday. The 
distance vve had to go was nearly two miles, and my mother 
and I drove thither in a donkey-chair, which had been 
hunted up in London for that purpose because the 
“ pheeaton (as the servants insisted on calling it) was too 
high for me. My father had an old-fashioned feeling about 
the Fourth Commandment, which made him scrupulous as 
to using any animal on Sunday; and even when, in bad 
weather, or for visitors, the larger carriage, was used, he 
always walked. He was really angry with Griff that morn- 
ing for mischievously maintaining that it was a greater 
breach of the commandment to work an ass than a horse. 

It was a pretty drive on a road slanting gradually through 
the brushwood that clothed the steep face of the hill-side, 
and passing farms and meadows full of cattle — all things 
quieter and stiller than ever in their Sunday repose. VVe 
knew that the living was in Winslow patronage, but that it 
was in the hands of one of the Selby connection, who held it, 
together with it is not safe to say how many benefices, and 
found it necessary for his health to reside at Bath. The 
vicarage had long since been turned into a farm-house, and 
the curate lived at Wattlesea. All this we knew, but we 
had not realized that he was likewise assistant curate there, 
and only favored Earlscombe with alternate morning and 
evening services on Sundays. 

Still less were we prepared for the interior of the church. 
It had a picturesque square tower covered with ivy, and a 


52 


CHAXTRY HOUSE. 


general air of fitness for a sketch; indeed, the photograph 
of it in its present beautified state will not stand a com- 
parison with our drawings of it, in those days of dilapida- 
tion in the middle of the untidy church-yard, with little 
boys astride on the sloping, sunken lichen-grown head- 
stones, mullein spikes and burdock leaves, more graceful 
than the trim borders and zinc crosses which are pleasanter 
to the mental eye. 

The London church we had left would be. a fearful shock 
to the present generation, but we were accustomed to de- 
cency, order, and reverence; and it was no wonder that my 
father was walking about the church-yard, muttering that 
he never saw such a place, while my brothers were full of 
amusement. Their spruce looks in their tall hats, bright ties, 
dark coats, and white trousers strapped tight under their 
boots, looked incongruous with the rest of the congregation, 
the most distinguished members of which were farmers in 
drab coats with huge mother-of-pearl buttons, and long 
gaiters buttoned up to their knees and strapped up to their 
gay waistcoats over their white corduroys. Their wives 
and daughters were in enormous bonnets, fluttering with 
ribbons; but then what my mother and Emily, wore were 
no trifles. The rest of the congregation were — the male 
part of it — ^in white or gray smock-frocks, the elderly 
women in black bonnets, the younger in straw; but we had 
not long to make our observations, for Chapman took pos- 
session of us. He was parish clerk, and was in great glory 
in his mourning coat and hat, and his object was to mar- 
shal us all into our pew before he had to attend upon the 
clergyman; and of course I was glad enough to get as soon 
as possible out of sight of all the eyes not yet accustomed 
to my figure. 

And hidden enough I was when we had been introduced 
through the little north chancel door into a black-curtained, 
black-cushioned, black-lined pew, well carpeted, with a 
table in the midst, and a stove, whose pipe made its exits 
through the floriated tracery of the window overhead. The 
chancel arch was to the west of us, blocked up by a wooden 
parcel-gilt erection, and to the east a decorated window 
that would have been very handsome if two side-lights 
had not been obscured by the two Tables of the Law, 
with the royal arms on the top of the first table, and 
over the other our own, with the Fordyce in a scutcheon of 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


53 


pretense; for, as an inscription recorded, they had been 
erected by Margaret, daughter of Christopher Fordyce, Es- 
quire, of Chantry House, and relict of Sir James John 
Winslow, Kt., sergeant-at law, a.d. 170() — the last date, I 
verily believe, at which anything had been done to the 
church. And on the wall, stopping up the southern chan- 
cel window, was a huge marble slab, supported by angels 
blowing trumpets, with a very long inscription about the 
Fordyce family, ending with this same Margaret who had 
married the Winslow, lost two or three infants, and died 
on 1st January, 1708, three years later than her husband. 

Thus far I could see; but Griff was standing lifting the 
curtain, and showing by the working of his shoulders his 
amazement and diversion, so that only the daggers in my 
mother's eyes kept Martyn from springing up after him. 
What he beheld was an altar draped in black like a coffin, 
and on the step up to the rail, boys and girls eating apples 
and performing antics to beguile the waiting time, while a 
row of white-smocked old men occupied the bench opposite 
to our seat, conversing loud enough for us to hear them. 

My father and Clarence came in; the bells stopped ; there 
was a sound of steps, and in the fabric in front of us there 
emerged a grizzled head and the back of a very dirty sur- 
plice besprinkled with iron molds, while Chapman's back 
appeared above our curtain, his desk (full of dilapidated 
prayer-books) being wedged in between us and the reading- 
desk. 

The duet that then took place between him and the cu- 
rate must have been heard to be credible, especially, as being 
so close behind the old man, we could not fail to be aware 
of all the remarkable shots at long words which he bawled 
out at the top of his voice, and I refrain from recording, 
lest they should haunt others as they have done by me all 
my life. Now and then Chapman caught up a long switch 
and dashed out at some obstreperous child to give an audi- 
ble whack; and toward the close of the litany he stumped 
out — we heard his tramp the whole length of the church, 
and by and by his voice issued from an unknown height, 

proclaiming— ‘‘ Let us sing to the praise and glory in 

an anthem taken from the 42d chapter of Genesis." 

There was an outburst of bassoon, clarionet, and fiddle, 
and the performance that followed was the most marvelous 
we had ever heard, especially when the big butcher— 


54 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


fiddling all the time — declared in a mighty solo, “ I am 
Jo— Jo — Jo — Joseph, and having reiterated this infor- 
mation four or five times, inquired with equal pertinacity, 
“ Doth — doth my fa-a-u-ther yet live?^^ Poor Emily was 
fairly ‘‘ convulsed;’ she stuffed her handkerchief into her 
mouth, and grew so crimson that my mother was quite 
frightened, and very near putting her out at the little door 
of excommunication. To our last hour we shall never for- 
get the shock of that first anthem. 

The commandments were read from the desk. Chap- 
man’s solitary response coming from the gallery; and while 
the second singing — four verses from Tate and Brady — was 
going on, we beheld the surplice stripped off — like the 
slough of a May-fly, as Griff' said — when a rusty black 
gown was revealed, in which the curate ascended the pulpit 
and was lost to our view before the concluding verse of the 
psalm, which we had reason to believe was selected in com- 
pliment to us, as well as to Earlscombe — 

“ My lot is fall’n in that blest land 

Where God is truly known, 

He fills my cup with liberal hand; 

’Tis He — ’tis He — ’tis He — supports my throne.’’ 

We had great reason to doubt how far the second line could 
justly be applied to the parish! but there was no judging of 
the sermon, for only detached sentences reached us in a sort 
of mumble. Griff afterward declared church-going to be as 
good as a comedy, and we all had to learn to avoid meet- 
ing each other’s eyes, whatever we might hear. When the 
scuffle and tramp of the departing congregation had ceased, 
we came forth from our sable box, and beheld the remnants 
of a once handsome church, mauled in every possible way, 
green stains on the walls, windows bricked up, and a huge 
singing gallery. Good bits of carved stall-work were nailed 
anyhow into* the pevv^s; the floor was uneven; no font was 
visible; there was a moldy uncared-for look about every- 
thing. The curate in riding-boots came out of the vestry 
— a pale, weary-looking man, painfully meek and civil, 
with gray hair sleeked round his face. He “ louted low,” 
and seemed hardly to venture on taking the hand my father 
held out to him. There was some attempt to enter into 
conversation with him, but he begged to be excused, for he 
had to hurry back to Wattlesea to a funeral. Poor man. 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


55 


lie was as great a pluralist as his vicar, for he kept a boys’ 
school, partially day, partially boarding, and his eyes looked 
hungrily at Martyn. 

If the sweet cottage bonnet ” had been at church there 
would have been little chance of discovering her, hut we 
found that we were the only “ quality,” as Chapman called 
it, or things might not have been so bad. Old James 
‘ Winslow had been a mere fox-hunting squire till he 
became a valetudinarian,- nor had he ever cared for the 
church or for the poor, so that the village was in a 
frightful state of neglect. There was a dissentiiig chapel, 
old enough to be overgrown with ivy and not too hideous, 
erected by the Nonconformists in the reign of the Great 
Deliverer, but this partook of the general decadence of the 
parish, and, as we found, the chapel’s principal use was to 
serve as an excuse for not going to church. 

My father always went to church twice, so he and Clar- 
ence walked to Wattlesea, where appearances were most 
respectable; but they heard the same sermon over again, 
and, as my father dryly remarked, it was not a composi- 
tion that would bear repetition. 

He was much distressed at the state of things, and in- 
tended to write to the incumbent, though, as he said, what- 
ever was done would end by being at his own expense, and 
the move and other calls left him so little in hand that he 
sighed over the difficulties, and declared that he was better 
off in London, except for the honor of the thing. Perhaps 
my mother was of the same opinion after a dreary after- 
noon, when Griff and Martyn had been wandering about 
aimlessly, and were at length betrayed by the barking of a 
little terrier, purchased the day before from Tom Petty, 
besieging the stable cat, who stood with swollen tail, glaring 
eyes and thunderous growls, on the top of the tallest pillar 
of the ruins. Emily nearly cried at their cruelty. Martyn 
was called off by my mother, and set down, half sulky, half 
ashamed, to “ Henry and his Bearer;” and Griff, vowing 
that he believed it was that brute who made the row at night, 
and that she ought to be exterminated, strolled off to con- 
verse with Chapman, who was a quaint compound of clerk 
and keeper — in the one capacity upholding his late master, 
in the other bemoaning Mr. Mears’s unpunctualities,specially 
as regarded weddings and funerals; one “ corp ” having 
been kept waiting till a messenger had been sent to Wat- 


56 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


tlesea, who finding both clergy out for the day, had had to 
go to Hillside, “ where they was always ready, though the 
old squire would have been mad with him if he^’d a-guessed 
one of they Fordys had ever set foot in the parish. ” 

The only school in the place was close to the meeting- 
house, “ a very darnels school indeed,^ ^ as Emily described 
it after a peep on Monday. Dame Dearlove, the old woman 
who presided, was a picture of Shenstone^s school-mistress — 
black bonnet, horn spectacles, fearful birch rod, three-cor- 
nered buff kerchief, checked apron and all, but on med- 
dling with her, she proved a very dragon, the antipodes of 
her name. Tattered copies of the ‘‘ Universal Spelling- 
Book served her aristocracy, ragged Testaments the gen- 
eral herd, whence all appeared to be shouting aloud at 
once. She looked sour as verjuice when my mother and 
Emily entered, and gave them to understand that she 
wasnT used to no strangers in her school, and didnT 
want ^em.’’^ We found that in Ohapman^’s opinion she 
‘‘ didn^t larn ^em nothing. She had succeeded her aunt, 
who had taught him to read ‘‘ right off,^'’ but her baint 
to be compared with she. And now the farmers’ chi’- 
dren, and the little aristocracy, including his own grand- 
children — all indeed who, in his phrase, ‘‘ cared for eddica- 
tion ” — went to Wattlesea. 


CHAPTER XL 

“they fordys.” 

Of honorable reckoning are you both, 

And pity ’tis, you lived at odds so long. 

Shakespeare. 

My father had a good deal of business in hand, and was 
glad of Clarence’s help in writing and accounts— a great 
pleasure, though it prevented his being Griff’s companion 
in his exploring and essays at shooting. He had time, how- 
ever, to make an expedition with me in the donkey-chair to 
inquire after the herd-boy, Amos Bell, and carry him some 
kitchen physic. To our horror we found him quite alone 
in the wretched cottage, while everybody was out harvest- 
ing; but he did not seem to pity himself, or think it other- 
wise than quite natural, as he lay on a little bed in the cor- 
ner disabled by what Clarence thought a dislocation. Miss 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


57 


Ellen had brought him a pudding, and little Miss Anne a 
picture-book. 

He was not so dense and shy as the children of the ham- 
let near us, and Emily extracted from him that Miss Ellen 
was ‘‘ Our passon^s young lady."*^ 

‘‘ Mr. Mears's!^’ she exclaimed. 

No: oum be Passon Fordy.^^ 

It turned out that this place was not in Earlscombe at 
all, but in Hillside, a different parish; and the boy, Amos, 
further communicated that there was old Passon Fordy, 
and Passon Frank, and madame, what was Mr. Frank^s 
lady. Yes, he could read, he could; he went to Sunday- 
school, and was in Miss Ellen ^s class; he had been to school 
worky days, only father was dead, and Farmer Hartop gave 
him a job. 

It was plain that Hillside was under a very different rule 
from Earlscombe; and Emily was dehghted to have dis- 
covered that the sweet cottage bonnet’s owner was called 
Ellen, which just then was the pet Christian name of ro- 
mance, in honor of the “ Lady of the Lake. ” 

In the midst of her raptures, however, just as we were 
about to turn in at our own gate into the wood, we heard 
horses’ hoofs, and then came, careering by on ponies, a very 
pretty -girl and a youth of about the same age. Clarence 4 
hand rose to his hat, and he made his eager bow; but the 
young lady did not vouchsafe the slightest acknowledg- 
ment, turned her head away, and urged her pony to speed. 

Emily broke out with an angry disappointed exclama- 
tion. Clarence’s face was scarlet, and he said low and 
hoarsely, ‘‘That’s Lester. He was in the ‘Argus’ at 
Portsmouth two years ago;” and then, as our little sister 
continued her indignant exclamations, he added, “ Hush! 
Don’t on any account say a word about it. I had better 
get back to my work. I am only doing you harm by stay- 
ing here.” 

At which Emily shed tears, and together we persuaded him 
not to curtail his holiday, which, indeed, he could not have 
done without assigning the reason to the elders, and this 
was out of the question. Nor did he venture to hang back 
when, as our seiwice was to be on Sunday afternoon, my 
father proposed to walk to Hillside Church in the morning. 
They came back well pleased. There was care and decency 
throughout. The psalms were sung to a “ grinder organ ” 


58 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


—which was an advanced state of things in those days — 
and very nicely. Parson Frank read well and impressively, 
and the old parson, a fine venerable man, had preached an 
excellent sermon — really admirable, as my father repeated. 
Our party had been scarcely in time, and had been disposed 
of in seats close to the door, where Clarence- was quite out 
of sight of the disdainful young lady and her squire, of 
whom Emily begged to hear no more. 

She looked askance at the cards left on the hall table the 
next day — “ The Rev. Christopher Fordyce,^^ and ‘‘ The 
Rev. F. C. Fordyce,'’^ also “Mrs. F. C. Fordyce, Hillside 
Rectory.-’^ 

We had found out that Hillside was a family living, and 
that there was much activity there on the part of the fa- 
ther and son — rector and curate; and that the other cleric- 
al folk, ladies especially, who called on us, spoke of Mrs. 
F. C. Fordyce with a certain tone, as if they were afraid of 
her, as Sir Horace Lester^s sister — very superior, very act- 
ive, very strict in her notions— as if these were so many 
defects. They were an offshoot of the old Fordyces of 
Chantry House, but so far back that all recollection of kin- 
dred or connection must have worn out. Their property — 
all in beautiful order — marched with ours, and Chapman 
was very particular about the boundaries. “ Old master he 
wouldn^t have a bird picked up if it fell over on they For- 
dys^ ground — not he! He couldn’t abide passons, couldn’t 
the old squire — not Miss Hannah More, and all they Ched- 
dar lot, and they Fordys least of all. My son’s wife, she 
was for sending her little maid to Hillside to Madame For- 
dys’ school, but, bless your heart, ’twould have been as 
much as my place was worth if master had known it. ” 

The visit was not returned till after Clarence had gone 
back to his London work. Sore as was the loss of him 
from my daily life, I could see that the new world and 
fresh acquaintances were a trial to him, and especially since 
the enc-Dunter with young Lester had driven him back into 
his shell, so that he would be better where he was already 
known and had nothing new to overcome. Emily, though 
not yet sixteen, was emancipated from school-room habits, 
and the dear girl was my devoted slave to an extent that 
perhaps I abused. 

Not being “ come out,” she was left at home on the day 
when we set out on a regular progress in the chariot with 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


59 


post-horses. The britzska and pair, which were our ambi- 
tion, were to wait till my father ^s next rents came in. 
Morning calls in the country were a solemn and imposing 
ceremony, and the head of the family had to be taken on 
the first circuit; nor was there much scruple as to making 
them in the forenoon, so several were to be disposed of be- 
fore fulfilling an engagement to luncheon at the furthest 
point, where some old London friends had borrowed a 
house for the summer, and had included me in their in- 
vitation. 

Here alone did I leave the carriage, but I had Cooper^s 

Spy and my sketch-book as companions while waiting 
at doors where the inhabitants were at home. The last 
visit was at Hillside Eectory, a house of architecture some- 
what similar to our own, but of the soft creamy stone which 
so well set off the vine with purple clusters, the myrtles and 
fuchsias, that covered it. I was wishing we had drawn up 
far enough off for a sketch to be possible, when, from a 
window close above, I heard the following words in a clear 
girlish voice — 

“No, indeed! I^m not going down. It is only those 
horrid Earlscombe people. I can T think how they have the 
face to come near us!^^ 

There was a reply, perhaps that the parents had made 
the first visit, for the rejoinder was — “ "Xes; grandpapa said 
it was a Christian duty to make an advance; but they need 
not have come so soon. Indeed, I wonder they show them- 
selves at all. I am sure I would not if I had such a dread- 
ful son.^^ Presently, “ I hate to think of it. That I should 
have thanked him. Depend upon it, he will never pay the 
doctor. A coward like that is capable of anything. 

The proverb had been realized, but there could hardly 
have been a more involuntary or helpless listener. Pres- 
ently my parents came back, escorted by both the gentle- 
men of the house, tall fine-looking men, the elder with 
snowy hair, and the dignity of men of the old school; the 
younger with a joyous, hearty, out-of-door countenance, 
more like a squire than a^clergyman. 

The visit seemed to have been gratifying. Mrs. Fordyce 
was declared to be of higher stamp than most of the neigh- 
boring ladies; and my father was much pleased with the 
two clergymen, while as we drove along he kept on admir- 
ing the well-ordered fields and fences, and contrasting the 


60 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


pretty cottages and trim gardens with the dreary apearance 
of our own village. I asked why Amos Bell’s home had 
been neglected, and was answered with some annoyance, as 
I pointed down the lane, that it was on our land, though in 
Hillside parish. ‘‘ I am glad to have such neighbors!’^ 
observed my mother, and I kept to myself the remarks I 
had heard, though I was still tingling with the sting of 
them. 

We heard no more of “ they Fordys ” for some time. 
The married pair went away to stay with friends, and we 
^ only once met the old gentleman, when I was waiting in 
the street at Wattlesea in the donkey-chair, while my 
mother was tr3hng to match netting silk in the odd little 
shop that united fancy work, toys, and tracts with the post- 
office. Old Mr. Fordyce met us as we drew up, handed her 
out with a grand seigneur’s courtesy, and stood talking to 
me so delightfully that I quite forgot it was from Christian 
duty. 

My father corresponded with the old rector about the 
state of the parish, and at last went over to Bath for a per- 
sonal conference, but without much satisfaction. The 
Earlscombe people were pronounced to be an ungrateful 
good-for-nothing set, for whom it was of no use to do any- 
Siing; and indeed my mother made such discoveries in the 
cottages that she durst not let Emily fulfill her cherished 
scheme of visiting them. The only resemblance to the 
favorite heroines of religious tales that could be permitted 
was assembling a tiny Sunday class in Chapman’s lodge; 
and it must be confessed that her brothers thought she 
made as much fuss about it as if there had been a hundred 
scholars. 

However, between remonstrances and offers of undertak- 
ing a share of the expense, my father managed to get Mr. 
Mears’ services dispensed with from the ensuing Lady-Day, 
and that a resident curate should be appointed, the choice 
of whom was to rest with himself. It was then and there 
decided that Martyn should be^ “ brought up to the 
Church, ” as people then used to term destination to Holy 
Orders. My father said he should feel justified in building 
a good house when he could afford it, if it was to be a pro- 
vision for one of his sons, and he also felt that as he had 
the charge of the parish as patron, it was right and fitting 
to train one of his sons up to take care of it. Nor did Mar- 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


61 


tyn show any distaste to the idea, as indeed there was less 
in it then than at present to daunt the imagination of an 
honest, lively boy, not as yet specially thoughtful or de- 
vout, but obedient, ti’uthf ul, and fairly reverent, and ready 
to grow as he was trained. 


CHAPTER XII. 

MRS. SOPHIA^ S FEUD. 


O’er all there hung the shadow of a fear, 

A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, 
And said as plain as whisper in the ear. 

The idace is haunted. 

Hood. 


We had a houseful at Christmas. The Rev. Charles 
Henderson, a iFellow of Trinity College, Oxford, lately or- 
dained a deacon, had been recommended to us by our Lon- 
don vicar, and was willing not only to take charge of the 
parish, but to direct my studies, and to prepare Martyn for 
school. He came to us for the Christmas vacation to re- 
connoiter and engage lodgings at a farm-house. We liked 
him very much — my mother being all the better satisfied 
after he had shown her a miniature, and confided to her 
that the original was waiting till a college living should 
come to him in the distant future. 

Admiral Griffith could not tear himself from his warm 
rooms and his club, but our antiquarian friend, Mr. 
Stafford, came with his wife, and reveled in the ceilings of 
the mullion room, where he would much have liked to 
sleep, but that its accommodations were only fit for a 
bachelor. 

Our other visitor was Miss Shelby, or rather Mrs. Sophia 
Selby, as she designated herself, according to the becom- 
ing fashion of elderly spinsters, which to my mind might be 
gracefully resumed. It irked my father to . think of the 
good lady^s solitary Christmas at Bath, and he asked her to 
come to us. She traveled half-way in a post-chaise, and 
then was met by the carriage. A very nice old lady she 
was, with a meek, delicate babyish face, which could not be 
spoiled by the cap of the period, one of the most disfiguring 
articles of head-gear ever devised, though nobody thought 
so then. She was full of kindness; indeed, if she had a 


62 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


fault it was the abundant pity she lavished on me, and her 
determination to amuse me. The weather was of the kind 
that only the healthy and hardy could encounter, and when 
every one else was gone out, and I was-just settling in with 
a new book, or an old crabbed Latin document, that Mr. 
Stafford had intrusted to me to copy out fairly and trans- 
late, she would glide in with her worsted work on a charita- 
ble mission to enliven poor Mr. Edward. 

However, this was the means of my obtaining some curi- 
ous enlightenments. A dinner-party was in contemplation, 
and she was dismayed at the choice of the fashionable Lon- 
don hour of seven, and still more by finding that the For- 
dyces were to be among the guests. She was too well-bred 
to manifest her feelings to her hosts, but alone with me, 
she could not refrain from expressing her astonishment to 
me, all the more when she heard this was reciprocity for an 
invitation that it had not been possible to accept. Her 
poor dear uncle would never hear of intercourse with Hill- 
side. On being asked why, she repeated what Chapman 
had Said, that he could not endure any one connected with 
Mrs. Hannah More and her canting, humbugging set, as 
the ungodly old man had chosen to call them, imbuing 
even this good woman with evil prejudices against their 
noble work at Cheddar. 

Besides this, Fordyces and Winslows could never be 
friends, since the Fordyces had taken on themselves to dis- 
pute the will, and say it had been improperly obtained. 

‘‘ What will?^' 

“ Mrs. Winslow’s — Margaret Fordyce that was. She 
was the heiress, and had every right to dispose of her prop- 
erty.” 

“ But that was more than a hmidred years ago!” 

So it was, my dear; but thougfi the law gave it to us — 
to my uncle’s grandfather (or great-grandfather, was it?) 
— those Fordyces never could rest content. Why, one of 
them — a clergyman’s son too — shot young Philip Winslow 
dead in a duel. They have always grudged at us. Does 
your papa know it, my dear Mr. Edward? He ought to be 
aware.” 

“ I do not know,” I said; but he would hardly care 
about what happened in the time of Queen Anne.” 

It was curious to see how the gentle little lady espoused 
the family quarrel, which, after all, was none of hers. 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


63 


“Well, you are London people, and the other branch, 
and may not feel as we do*down here; but 1 shall alwa 3 ^s 
say that Madame Winslow '’s husband’s son had every right 
to come before her cousin once removed. ” 

I asked if we were descended from her, for, having a turn 
for heraldry and genealogy, I wanted to make out our 
family tree. Mrs. Sophia was ready to hold up her hands 
at the ignorance of the “ other branch.” This poor heiress 
had lost all her children in their infancy, and bequeathed 
the estate to her step-son, the Fordyce male heir having 
been endoAved by her father ^vith the advowson of Hillside 
and a handsome estate there, wLich Mrs. Selby thought 
ought to have contented him, “ but some people never know 
when they have enough;” and, on my observing that it 
might have been a matter of justice, she waxed hotter, de- 
claring that what the Winslows felt so much was the accusa- 
tion of violence against the poor lady. She spoke as if it 
were a story of yesterday, and added, “ Indeed, they made 
the common people have all sorts of superstitious fancies 
about the room where she died — that old part of the house.” 
Then she added in a low mysterious voice, “ I hear that 
your brother Mr. Griffith Winslow could not sleep there;” 
and w'hen the rats and the wind were mentioned — “ Yes, 
that was what my poor dear uncle used to say. He always 
called it nonsense; but we never had a servant who would 
sleep there. You’ll not mention it, Mr. Edward, but I 
could not help asking that very nice house-maid, Jane, 
whether the room was used, and she said how Mr. Griffith 
had given it up, and none of the servants could spend a 
night there when they are sleeping round. Of course I 
said all in my power to dispel the idea, and told her that 
there was no accounting for all the noises in old houses; 
but you never can reason with that class of people.” 

“ Did 3 ^ou ever hear the noises, Mrs. Selby?” 

“ Oh, no; I wouldn’t sleep there for thousands! Not 
that I attach any importance to such folly — my poor dear, 
uncle would neve^ hear of such a thing; but 1 am such a 
nervous creature, I should lie awake all night expecting the 
rats to run over me. I never knew of any one sleeping 
there, except in the gay times when I was a child, and the 
house used to be as full as, or fuller than, it could hold, for 
the hunt breakfast or a ball, and my poor aunt used to make 
up ever so many beds in the two rooms, and then we never 


64 CHANTEY HOUSE. 

heard of any disturbance, except what they made them- 
selves. 

This chiefly concerned me, because home cosseting had 
made me old woman enough to be uneasy about uhaired 
beds; and I knew that my mother meant to consign Clarence 
to the mullion chamber. So, without betraying Jane, I 
spoke to her, and was answered, ‘‘ Oh, sir, Ifll take care of 
that; Ifll light a fire and air the mattresses well. I wish 
that was all, poor young gentleman 

To the reply that the rats were slaughtered and the wind 
stopped out, Jane returned a look of compassion; but the 
subject was dropped, as it was supposed to be the right 
thing to hush up, instead of fostering, any popular super- 
stition; but it surprised me that, as all our servants were 
fresh importations, they should so soon have become im- 
bued with these undefined alarms. 

My father was much amused at being successor to this 
family feud, and said that when he had time he would look 
up the documents. 

Mrs. Sophia was a sight when Mr. Tordyce and his son 
and daughter-in-law were announced; she was so comically 
stiff between her deference to her hosts and her allegiance 
to her poor dear uncle; but her coldness melted before the 
charms of old Mr. Tordyce, who was one of the most de- 
lightful people in the world. She even was his partner at 
whist, and won the game, and that she did like. 

Parson Frank, as we naughty young ones called him, 
was all good nature and geniality — a thorough clergyman 
after the ideas of the time, and a thorough farmer too; 
and in each capacity, as well as in politics, he suited my 
-father or Mr. Henderson. His lady, in a blonde cap, ex- 
actly like the last equipment my mother had provided her- 
self with in London, and a black satin dress, had much 
more style than the more gayly dressed country dames, and 
far more conversation. Mr. Stafford, who had dreaded the 
party, pronounced her a sensible, agreeable woman, and 
she was particularly kind and pleasant 4o me, coming and 
talking over the botany of the country, and then speaking 
of my brother’s kindness to poor Amos Bell, who was near- 
ly recovered, but was a weakly child, for whom she dreaded 
the toil of a plow-boy in thick clay with heavy shoes. 

I was sorry when, after Emily’s well-studied preformance 
on ♦the piano, Mrs. Fordyce was summoned away from me 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


65 


to sing, but ber music and her voice were both of a very 
different order from ordinary drawing-room music; and 
when our evening was over, we congratulated ourselves 
upon our neighbors, and agreed that the Fordyces were the 
gems of the party. 

Only Mrs. Sophia sighed at us as degenerate Winslows, 
and Emily reserved to herself the right of believing that 
the daughter was “ a horrid girl.^^ 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A SCKAPE. 

Though bound with weakness’ heav}’- chain 
We in the dust of earth remain; 

Not all remorseful be our tears, 

No agony of shame or fears, 

Need pierce its passion’s bitter tide. 

Verses and Sonnets. 

Perhaps it was of set purpose that our dinner-party had 
been given before Clarence -^s return. Griffith had been ex- 
pected in time for it, but he had preferred going by way of 
London to attend a ball given by the daughter of a barrister 
friend of my fathers. Selina Clarkson was a fine showy 
girl, with the sort of beauty to inspire boyish admiration, 
and Grift'^s had been a standing family joke, even my fa- 
ther condescending to tease liim when the young lady mar- 
ried Sir Henry Peacock, a fat vulgar old man who had 
made his fortune in the commissariat, and purchased a 
baronetcy. He was allowing his young wife her full swing 
of fashion and enjoyment. My mother did not think it a 
• desirable acquaintance, and was restless until both the 
brothers came home together, long after dark on Christmas- 
eve, having been met by the gig at the corner where the 
coach stopped. The dinner-hour had been put off till half- 
past six, and we had to wait for them, the coach having 
been delayed by setting down Christmas guests and Christ- 
mas fare. They were a contrast: Griffith looking very 
handsome and manly, all in a ruddy glow from the frosty 
air, and Clarence, though equally tall, well-made, and with 
more refined features, looked pale and effaced, now that his 
sailor tan was worn off. The one talked as eagerly as he 
eat, the other was shy, spiritless, and with little appetite; 


66 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


but as he always shrunk into himself among strangers, it 
was the less wonder that he sat in his drooping way behind 
my sofa, while Griffith kept us all merry with his account 
of the humors of the Peacock at home;'’^ the lumbering 
elforts of old Sir Henry to be as young and gay as his wife, 
in spite of gout and portliness; and the extreme delight of 
his lady in her new splendors — a gold-spotted muslin and 
white plumes in a diamond agraffe. He mimicked Sir- 
Henryks cockneyisms more than my father ^s chivalry ap- 
proved toward his recent host, as he described the com- 
plaints he had heard against ‘ ‘ my lady being refused the 
hentry at Halmack^s, but treated like the wery canal and 
how the devoted husband “ wowed he would get up a still 
more hexclusive circle, and shut hout these himpertinent 
fashionables who regarded Halmack^s as the seventh 
^eaven. 

My mother shook her head at his audacious fun about 
Paradise and the Peri, but he was so brilliant and good- 
humored that no one was ever long displeased with him. At 
night he followed when Clarence helped me to my room, 
and carefully shutting the door. Griff began: ‘‘Now, 
Teddy, you^re always as rich as a Jew, and I told Bill youM 
help him to set it straight. IM do it myself, but that I^m 
cleaned out. IM give ten times the cash rather than see 
him with that hang-dog look again for just nothing at all, 
if he would only believe so and be rational. 

Clarence did look indescribably miserable wliile it was ex- 
plained that he had been commissioned to receive about £20 
which was owing to my father, and to discharge therewith 
some small debts to London tradesmen. All except the 
last, for a little more than four pounds, had been paid, 
when Clarence met in the street an old messmate, a good- 
natured rattle-pated youth — one of those who had thought 
him harshly treated. There was a cordial greeting, and an 
invitation to dine at once at a hotel, where they were joined 
by some other young men, and by and by betook themselves 
to cards, when my poor brother’s besetting enemy pre- 
vented him from withdrawing when he found the points 
were guineas. Thus he lost the remaining amount in his 
change, and so much of his own that barely enough was left 
for his journey. His salary was not due till* Lady-day; Mr. 
Castleford was in the country, and no advances could be 
asked from Mr. Frith. Thus Griff had found liim in utter 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


67 


despair, and had ever since been trying to cheer him and 
make light of his trouble. If I advanced the amount, which 
was no serious matter to me, Clarence could easily get Peter 
to pay the bill, and if my father should demand the receipt 
too soon, it would be easy to put him off by saying there 
had been a delay in getting the account sent in. 

“ I couldnH do that,^^ said Clarence. 

“ Well, I should not have thought you would have stuck 
at that,^^ returned Griff. 

“ There must be no untruth/^ I broke in; “ but if, with- 
out that, he can avoid getting into a scrape with papa — 

Clarence interrupted in the wavering voice we knew so 
well, but growing clearer and stronger. “ Thank you, Ed- 
ward, but — but — no, I canT. There ^s the Sacrament to- 
morrow. 

“ Oh — h!^^ said Griff, in an indescribable tone. “ But 
he will never believe you, nor let you go. 

“ Better so,^^ said Clarence, half choked, “ than go pro- 
fanely — deceiving — or not knowing whether I shall — 

J ust then we heard our father wishing the other gentle- 
men good-night, and to our surprise Clarence opened the 
door, though he was deadly white and with dew starting on 
his forehead. 

My father turned good-naturedly. ‘‘ Boys, boys, you are 
glad to be together, but mamma wonT have you talking 
here all night, keeping her baby up. 

“ Sir,^^ said Clarence, holding by the rail of the bed, “ I 
was waiting for you. I have something to tell you. 

The words that followed were incoherent and wrong end 
foremost; nor had many, indeed, been uttered before my 
father cut them short with — 

hTo false excuses, sir; I know you too well to hsten. 
Go. I have ceased to hope for anything better. 

Clarence went without a word, but Griff and I burst out 
with entreaties to be listened to. Our father thought at 
first that ours were only the pleadings of partiality, and en- 
deavors to shield the brother we both so heartily loved; but 
when he understood the circumstances, the real amount of 
the transgression, and Clarence^s rejection of our united 
advice and assistance to conceal it, he was greatly touched 
and softened. “Poor lad! poor fellow he muttered, 
“he is really doing his best. I need not have cut him so 


68 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


short. I was afraid of more falsehoods if I let him open 
his mouth. 1^11 go and see.-’^ 

He went olf, and we remained in suspense. Griff observ- 
ing that he had done his best, but poor Bill always would 
be a fool, and that no one who had not always lived at home 
like me would have let out that we had been for the sup- 
pression policy. As I was rather shocked', he went off 
to bed, sapng he should look in to see what remained of 
Clarence after the pelting of the pitiless storm he was sure 
to bring on himself by his ridiculous faltering instead of 
speaking out like a man. 

I longed to have been able to do the same, but my father 
kindly came back to relieve my mind by telling me that he 
was better satisfied about Clarence" than ever he had been 
before. When encouraged to speak out, the narrative of 
the temptation had so entirely agreed with what we had said 
as to show there had been no prevarication, and this had 
done more to convince my father that he was on the right 
track than the having found him on his knees. He had 
had a patient hearing, and thus was able to command his 
nerves enough to explain himself, and it had ended in my 
father giving entire forgiveness for what, as Griff truly said, 
would have been a mere trifle but for the past. The volun- 
tary confession had much impressed my father, and he 
could not help adding a word of gentle reproof to me for 
having joined in aiding him to withhold it, but he accepted 
my explanation and went away, observing, “ By the bye, I 
donT wonder at what Griffith says of that room; I never 
heard such strange effects of currents of air. 

Clarence was in my room before I was dressed, full of 
our father “ wonderful goodness to him. He had never 
experienced anything like it, he said. ‘^Why! he really 
seemed hopeful about me,^^ were words uttered with a 
gladness enough to go to one^s heart. Oh, Edward, I feel 
as if there was some chance of ‘ steadfastly purposing ^ this 
time. 

It was not the way of the family to say much of religious 
feeling, and this was much for Clarence to utter. He 
looked white and tired, but there was an air of rest and 
peace about him, above all when my mother met him with 
a very real kiss. Moreover, Mr. Castleford had taken care 
to brighten our Christmas with a letter expressive of great 
satisfaction with Clarence for steadiness and intelligence. 


CHAKTEY HOUSE. 


69 


Even Mr. Fi’ith allowed that he was the most punctual of 



I do believe/^ said my father, that his piety is doing 
him some good after all.^^ 

So our mutual wishes of a happy Christmas were verified, 
though not much accordmg to the notions of this half of 
the centuiy. People made their Christmas-day either mere 
merriment, or something little different from the grave 
Sunday of that date. And ours, except for the admiraPs 
dining with us, had always been of the latter description, 
all the more that when celebrations of the Holy Communion 
were so rare they were treated with an awe and reverence 
which frequency has perhaps diminished, and a feeling 
(possibly Puritanical) prevailed ^ ^ 



congruous to end with festivity 


had a Christmas-day Communion at all at Earlscombe was 
an innovation only achieved by Mr. Henderson going to 
assist the old rector at Wattlesea; and there were no com- 
municants except from our house, besides Chapman, his 
daughter-in-law, and five old creatures between whom the 
alms were immediately divided. We afterward learned 
that our best farmer and his wife were much disappointed 
at the change from Sunday interfering with the family jol- 
hfication; and Mrs. Sophia Selby was annoyed at the con- 
tradiction to her habits under the rule of her poor dear 
uncle. 

Of the irregularities, irreverences, and squalor of the 
whole I will not speak. They were not then such stum- 
bling-blocks as they would be now, and many passed unper- 
ceived by us, buried as we were in our big pew, with our 
eyes riveted on our books; yet even thus there was enough 
evident to make my mother rejoice that Mr. Henderson 
would be with us before Easter. Still this could not mar 
the thankful gladness that was with us all that day, and 
which shone in Clarence's eyes. His countenance always 
had a remarkable expression in church, as if somehow his 
spirit went further than ours did, and things unseen were 
more real to him. 

Hillside, as usual, had two services, and my father and 
his friend were going to walk thither in the afternoon, but 
it was a raw cold day, threatening snow, and Emily was 
caught by my mother in the hall and ordered back, as well as 
Clarence, who had shown symptoms of having caught cold 


70 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


on his dismal journey. Emily coaxed from her permission 
to have a fire in the book-room, and there we three had a 
memorably happy time. We read our psalms and lessons, 
and our “ Christian Year,^^ which was more and more the 
loadstar of our feelings. We compared our favorite pas- 
sages, and discussed the obscurer ones, and Clarence was 
led to talk out more of his heart than he had ever shown to 
us before. Perhaps he had lost some of his reserve through 
his intercourse with our good old governess. Miss Newton, 
who was still grinding away at her daily mill, though with 
somewhat failing eyesight, so that she could do nothing but 
knit in the long evenings, and was most grateful to her 
former pupil for coming, as often as he could, to talk or 
read to her. 

She was a most excellent and devout woman, and when 
Emily, who in youthful gaiete de mur had got a little tired 
of her, exclaimed at his taste, and asked if she made him 
read nothing but Pikers “ Early Piety,^'’ he replied grave- 
ly, “ She showed me where to lay my burden down,^^ and 
turned to the two last verses of the poem for Good Fri- 
day in the “ Christian Year,^’ as well as to the one we 
had just read on the Holy Communion. 

My father ^s kindness had seemed to him the pledge of 
the Heavenly Father’s forgiveness; and he added, perhaps 
a little childishly, that it had been his impulse to promise 
never to touch a card again, but that he dreaded the only 
too familiar reply, ‘‘ What availed his promises?” 

‘‘ Do promise, Clarry!” cried Emily, ‘‘ and then you 
won’t have to play with that tiresome old Mrs. Sophia.” 

‘‘That would rather deter me,” said Clarence good- 
hum0redly. 

“ A card-playing old age is despicable,” pronounced 
Miss Emily, much to our amusement. 

After that we got into a bewilderment. We knew noth- 
ing of the future question of temperance versus total ab- 
stinence; but after it had been extracted that Miss Newton 
regarded cards as the devil’s books, the inconsistent little 
sister changed sides, and declared it narrow and evangelical 
to renounce what was innocent. Clarence argued that 
what might be harmless for others might be dangerous for 
such as himself, and that his real difficulty in making even 
a mental vow was that, if broken, there was an additional 
sin. 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


71 


It is not one^s self that one trusts,” I said. 

“ No,^^ said Clarence emphatically; “ and setting up a 
vow seems as if it might be sticking up the reed of oner’s 
own word, and leaning on that — when it breaks, at least 
mine does. If I could always get the grasp of Him that I 
felt to-day, there would be no more bevvildered heart and 
failing spirit, which are worse than the actual falls they 
cause. And as Emily said she did not understand, he 
replied in words I wrote down and thought over, “ What 
we are is the point, more than even what we do, do 
as we are; and yet we form ourselves by what we do. ” 

“ And,” I put in, “I know somebody who won a victory 
last night over himself and his two brothers. Surely domg 
that is a sign that he is more than he used to be. 

‘‘If he were, it would not have been an effort at all,” 
said Clarence, but with his rare sweet smile. 

J ust then Griff called him away, and Emily sat ponder- 
ing and impressed. “ It did seem so odd,” she said, “ that 
Clarry should be so much the best, and yet so much the 
worst of us. 

I agreed. His insight into spiritual things, and his en- 
joyment of them, always humiliated us both, yet he fell so 
much lower in practice — “ But then we had not his temp- 
tations. ” 

“ Yes,” said Emily; “ but look at (rriff! He goes about 
like other young men, and keeps all right, and yet he 
doesn^t care about religious things a bit more than he can 
help.^^ 

It was quite true. Religion was life to the one and an 
insurance to the other, and this had been a mystery to us 
all our young lives, as far as we had ever reflected on the 
contrast between the practical failure and success of each. 
Our mother, on the other hand, viewed Clarence ^s tenden- 
cies as part of an unreal, self -deceptive nature, and regretted 
his intimacy with Miss Newton, who, she said, had fostered 
“ that kind of thing in his childhood — made him fancy 
talk, feeling, and preaching were more than truth and 
honor — and might lead him to run after Irving, Rowland 
Hill, or Baptist Noel, about whose tenets she was rather 
confused. It would be an additional misfortune if he be- 
came a fanatical Evangelical light, and he was just the 
character to be worked upon. 

My father held that she might be thankful for any good 


72 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


influence or safe resort for a young man in lodgings in Lon- 
don, and he merely bade Clarence never resort to any va- 
riety of dissenting preacher. We were of the school called 
— a little later — high and dry, but were strictly orthodox 
according to our lights, and held it a prime duty to attend 
our parish church, whatever it might be; nor, indeed, had 
Clarence swerved from these traditions. 

Poor Mrs. Sophia was balked of the game at whist, 
which she viewed as a legitimate part of the Christmas 
pleasures; and after we had eaten our turkey, we found the 
evening long, except that Martyn escaped to snapdragon 
with the servants; and, by and by. Chapman, magnificent 
in patronage, ushered in the church singers into the hall, 
and clarionet, bassoon, and fiddle astonished our ears. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE MULLION CHAMBER. 

A lady with a lamp I see, 

Pass through the glimmering gloom, 

And flit from room to room. 

Longfellow. 

For want of being able to take exercise, the first part of 
the night had always been sleepless with me, though my 
dear mother thought ic wrong to recognize the habit or 
allow me a lamp. A fire, however, I had, and by its light, 
on the second night after Christmas, I saw my door noise- 
lessly opened, and Clarence creeping in half -dressed and 
barefooted. To my frightened interrogation the answer 
came, through chattering teeth, ‘‘ It^s I — only I — Ted — ^no 
— nothing's the matter, only I can^t stand it any longer!’’’ 

His hands were cold as ice when he grasped mine, as if 
to get hold of something substantial, and he trembled so as 
to shake the bed. “ That room,” he faltered. ’Tis not 
only the moans! I’ve seen her!” 

“ Whom?” 

. ‘‘I don’t know. There she stands with her lamp, cry- 
ing!” I could scarcely distinguish the words through the 
clashing of his teeth, and as I threw my arms round him 
the shudder seemed to pass to me; but I did my best to 
warm him by drawing the clothes over him, and he began 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


73 


to gather himself together, and speak intelligibly. There 
had been sounds the first night as of wailing, but he had 
been too much preoccupied to attend to them till, soon 
after one o^clock, they ended in a heavy fall and long shriek, 
after which all was still. Christmas-night had been undis- 
turbed, but on this the voices had begun again at eleven, 
and had a strangely human sound; but as it was windy, 
sleety weather, and he had learned at sea to disregard noises 
in the rig:ging, he drew the sheet over his head and went to 
sleep. “ I was dreaming that I was at sea,^^ he said, “ as 
I always do on a noisy night, but this was not a dream. I 
was wakened by a light in the room, and there stood a 
woman with a lamp, moaning and sobbing. My first no- 
tion was that one of the maids had come to call me, and I 
sat up; but I could not speak, and she gave another awful 
suppressed cry, and moved toward that walled-up door. 
Then I saw it was none of the servants, for it was an an- 
tique dress like an old picture. So I knew what it must be, 
and an unbearable horror came over me, and I rushed into 
the outer room, where there was a little fire left; but I heard 
her going on still, and I could endure it no longer. I knew 
you would be awake and would bear with me, so I came 
down to you.^'^ 

. Then this was what Chapman and the maids had meant. 
This was Mrs. Sophia Selby^s vulgar superstition! I found 
that Clarence had heard none of the mysterious whispers 
afloat, and only knew that Griff had deserted the room after 
his own return to London. I related what I had learned 
from the old lady, and in that midnight hour we agreed 
that it could be no mere fancy or rumor, but that cruel 
wrong must have been done in that chamber. Our feeling 
was that all ought to be made known, and in that impres- 
sion we fell asleep, Clarence first. 

By and by 1 found him moving. He had heard the 
clock strike four, and thought it wiser to repair to his owji 
quarters, where he believed the disturbance was over. Lu- 
cifer matches as yet were not, but he had always been a 
noiseless being, with a sailor^s foot, so that, by the help of 
the moonlight through the hall windows, he regained his 
room. 

And when morning had come, the nocturnal visitation 
wore such a different aspect to both our minds that we de- 
cided to say nothing to our parents, who, said Clarence, 


74 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


would simply disbelieve him ; and, indeed, I inclined to sup- 
pose it had been an uncommonly vivid dream, produced in 
that sensitive nature by the uncanny sounds of the wind in 
the chinks and crannies of the ancient chamber. Had not 
Scott^s “ Demonology and Witchcraft,^ ^ which we studied 
hard on that day, proved all such phantoms to be explica- 
ble? The only person we told was Griff, who was amused 
and incredulous. He had heard the noises — oh, yes! and 
objected to having his sleep broken by them. It was too 
bad to expose Clarence to them — ^poor Bill — on whom they 
worked such fancies! 

He interrogated Chapman, however, but probably in that 
bantering way which is apt to produce reserve. Chapman 
never ‘‘gave heed to them fictions tales, ” he said; but, 
when hard pressed, he allowed that he had “ heerd that a 
lady do walk o^ winter nights, and that was why the gar- 
den-door of the old rooms was walled up. Griff asked if 
this was done for fear she should catch cold, and this some- 
what affronted him, so that he averred that he knew naught 
about it, and gave no thought to such like. 

Just then they arrived at the Winslow Arms, and took 
each a glass of ale, when Grift', partly to tease Chapman, 
asked the landlady — an old Chantry House servant — 
whether she had ever met the ghost. She turned rather . 
pale, which seemed to have impressed him, and demanded 
if he had seen it. “ It alwa3^s walked at Christmas- time — 
between then and the New-year.^^ She had once seen a 
light in the garden by the ruin in winter-time, and once 
last spring it came along the passage, but that was just be- 
fore the old squire was took for death — folks said that 
was always the way before any of the family died — “if 
youTl excuse it, sir.-’-’ Oh, no, she thought nothing of 
such things, but she had heard tell that the noises were 
such at all times of the year that no one could sleep in the 
rooms, but the light wasnT to be seen except at Christmas. 
Griff, with the philosophy of a university man, was certain 
that all was explained by Clarence having imbibed the im- 
pression of the place being haunted; and going to sleep 
nervous at the noises, his brain had shaped a phantom in 
accordance. Let Clarence declare as he might that the le- 
gends were new to him. Griff only smiled to think how eas- 
ily people forgot, and he talked earnestly about catching- 
ideas without conscious information. 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


75 


However, he volunteered to sit up that night to ascertain 
the exact causes of the strange noises and convince Olarehce 
that they were nothing but the effects of draughts. The 
fire in his gun-room was surreptitiously kept up to serve 
for the vigil, which I ardently desired to share. It was an 
enterprise; it would gratify my curiosity; and besides, 
though GriflSth was good-natured and forbearing in a gen- 
eral way toward Clarence, I detected a spirit of mockery . 
about him which might break out unpleasantly when poor' 
Clarry was convicted of one of his unreasonable panics. i 

Both brothers were willing to gratify me, the only diffi- 
culty being that the tap of my crutches would warn the 
entire household of the expedition. However, they had — 
all unknown to my mother — several times carried me 
about queen •’s-cushion fashion, as, being always much of a 
size, they could do most handily; and as both were now 
fine, strong, well-made youths of twenty and nineteen, they 
had no doubt of easily and silently conveying me up the 
shallow-stepped staircase when all was quiet for the night. 

Emily, with her sharp ears, guessed that something was 
in hand, but we promised her that she should know all in 
time. I believe Grifi', being a little afraid of her quickness, 
led her to suppose he was going to hold what he called a 
symposium in his rooms, and to think it a mystery of col- 
lege life not intended for young ladies. 

He really had prepared a sort of supper for us when, after 
my father’s resounding turn of the key of the drawing-room 
door, my brothers, in their stocking soles, bore me upstairs, 
the fun of the achievement for the moment overpowering 
all sense of eeriness. Griff said he could not receive me in 
his apartment without doing honor to the occasion, and 
that Dutch courage was requisite for us both; but I sus- 
pect it was more in accordance with Oxford habits that 
he had provided a bottle of sherry and another of ale, some 
brandy cherries, bread, cheese, and biscuits, by what means 
I do not know, for my mother always locked up the wine. 
He was disappointed that Clarence would touch nothing, 
and declared that inanition was the preparation for ghost- 
seeing or imagining. I drank his health in a glass of sherry 
as I looked round at the curious old room, with its paneled 
roof, tlie heraldic devices and badges of the Power family, 
and the trophy of swords, dirks, daggers, and pistols, chiefly 
relics of our naval grandfather, but re-enforced by the sword. 


76 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 

helmet, and spurs of the county yeomanry which Griff had 
joined. 

Griff proposed cards to. drive away fancies, especially as 
the sounds were beginning; but though we generally yielded 
to him we could not give our attention to anything but 
these. There was first a low moan. ‘‘ Ko great harm in 
that,^^ said Griff; “it comes through that crack in the 
wainscot where there is a sham window. Some putty will 
^ put a stop to that.^^ 

Then came a more decided wail and sob much nearer to 
us. Griff hastily swallowed the ale in his tumbler, and, 
striking a theatrical attitude, exclaimed, “ Angels and min- 
isters of grace defend us!^^ 

Clarence held up his hand in deprecation. The door 
into his bedroom was open, and Griff, taking up one of the 
fiat candlesticks, pursued his researches, holding the flame 
to all chinks or cracks in the wainscoting to detect draughts 
which might cause the dreary sounds, which were much 
more like suppressed weeping than any senseless gust of 
wind. Of draughts there were many, and he tried holding 
his hand against each crevice to endeavor to silence the 
wails; but these became more human and more distress- 
ful. Presently Clarence exclaimed, “ There and on his 
face there was a wliiteness and an expression which always 
recurs to me on reading those words of Eliphaz the Te- 
manite, “ Then a spirit passed before myfaca and the hair 
of my flesh stood up.^^ Even Griff was awe-struck as we 
cried, “ Where? what?^^ 

“ DonT you see her? There! By the press — ^look!^’ 

“ I see a patch of moonlight on the wall,^^ said Griff. 

“ Moonlight — her lamp. Edward, donT you see her?^^ 

I could see nothing but a spot of light on the wall. Griff 
(plainly putting a force on himself) came back and gave 
him a good-natured shake. “ Dreaming again, old Bill. 
Wake up and come to your senses. 

“ I am as much in my senses as you are,^^ said Clarence.. 
“ I see her as plainly as I see you.^^ 

Nor could any one doubt either the reality of the awe in 
his voice and countenance, nor of the light — a kind of hazy 
ball — nor of the choking sobs. 

“ What is she like?"^ I asked, holding his hand, for, 
though infected by his dread, my fears were chiefly for the 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


77 


effect on him ; but he was much calmer and less horror- 
struck than on the previous night, though still he shud- 
dered as he answered in a low voice, as if loath to describe a 
lady in her presence, “ A dark cloak with the hood fallen 
back, a kind of lace head-dress loosely fastened, brown hair, 
thin white face, eyes — oh, poor thing! — staring with fright, 
dark — oh, how swollen the lids! all red below with crying 
— black dress with white about it — a widow kind of look — 
a glove on the arm with the lamp. Is she beckoning — 
looking at us? Oh, you poor thing, if I could tell what you 
mean!” . 

I felt the motion of his muscles in act to rise, and grasped 
him. Griff held him with a strong hand, hoarsejy crying, 
‘‘Don't! — don't! — don't follow the thing, whatever you 
do!” 

Clarence hid his face. It was very awful and strange. 
Once the thought of conjuring her to speak by the Holy 
Name crossed me, but then I saw no figure; and with in- 
credulous Griffith standing by, it would have been like play- 
ing, nor perhaps could I have spoken. How long this 
lasted there is no knowing; but presently the light moved 
toward the walled-up door and seemed to pass into it. 
Clarence raised his head and said she was gone. We 
breathed freely. 

“ The farce is over,” said Griff. “Mr. Edward Win- 
slow's carriage stops the way!" 

I was hoisted up, candle in hand, between the two, and 
had nearly reached the stairs when there came up on the 
garden side • a sound as of tipsy revelers in the garden. 
“ The scoundrels! how can they have got in?” cried Griff, 
looking toward the window; but all the windows on that 
side had peculiarly heavy shutters and bars, with only a 
tiny heart-shaped aperture very high up, so they somewhat 
hurried their steps down-stairs, intending to rush out on 
the intruders from the back door. But suddenly, in the 
middle of the staircase, we heard a terrible heart-rending 
woman's shriek, making us all start and have a general 
fall. My brothers managed to seat me safely on a step 
without much damage to themselves, but the candle fell 
and was extinguished, and we made too heavy a weight to 
fall without real noise enough to bring the household to- 
gether before we could pick ourselves up in the dark. 

We heard doors opening and hurried calls, and something 


78 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


about pistols, impelling Griff to call out, It’s nothing, 
papa; but there are some drunken rascals in the garden. ” 

A light had come by this time, and we were detected. 
There was a general sally upon the enemy in the garden 
before anyone thought of me, except a You here!” when 
they nearly fell over me. And there I was left sitting on 
the stair, helpless without my crutches, till in a few minutes 
all returned declaring there was nothing — no signs of any- 
thing; and then as Clarence ran up to me with my crutches 
my father demanded the meaning of my being there at that 
time of night. 

“ Well, sir,” said Griff, ‘‘it is only that we have been 
sitting up, to investigate the ghost. ” 

“ Ghost! Arrant stuff and nonsense! What induced you 
to be dragging Edward about in this dangerous way?” 

“ I wished it,” said I. 

“You are all mad together, I think. I won’t have the 
house disturbed for this ridiculous folly. I shall look into 
it to-morrow!” 


CHAPTEE XV. 

EATIOHAL THEORIES. 

These are the reasons, they are natural. 

Julius Cmsar. 

If anything could have made our adventure more un- 
pleasant to Mr. and Mrs. Winslow, it would have been the 
presence of guests. However, inquiry was suppressed at 
breakfast, in deference to the signs my mother made to 
enjoin silence before the children, all unaware that Emily 
was nearlyYrantic with suppressed curiosity, and Martyn 
knew more about the popular version of the legend than 
any of us. 

Clarence looked wan and heavy-eyed. His head was 
aching from a bump against the edge of a step, and his 
cold was much worse; no wonder, said my mother; but she 
was always softened by any ailment, and feared that the 
phantoms were the effect of coming illness. I have always 
thought that if Clarence could have come from his court- 
martial with a brain fever he would have earned immediate 
forgiveness; but unluckily for him, he was a very healthy 
person. 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


79 


All three of us were summoned to the tribunal in the 
study, where my father and my mother sat in j udgment on 
what they termed “ this preposterous business.’’^ In our 
morning senses our impressions were much more vague 
than at midnight, and we betrayed some confusion; but 
Griff and I had a strong instinct of sheltering Clarence, 
and we stoutly declared the noises to be beyond the capaci- 
ties of wind, rats, or cats; that the light was visible and 
inexplicable; and that though we had seen nothing else, we 
could not doubt that Clarence did. 

‘‘ Thought he did,-’^ corrected my father. 

“ Without discussing the word,^^ said Griff, “ I mean 
that the effect on his senses was the same as the actual 
sight. You could not look at him without being certain. 

“ Exactly so,^’ returned my mother. “ I wish Dr. Fel- 
lowes were near.^^ 

Indeed nothing saved Clarence from being consigned to 
medical treatment but the distance from Bath or Bristol, 
and the contradictory advice that had been received from 
our county neighbors as to our family doctor. However, 
she formed her theory that his nervous imaginings — 
whether involuntary or acted, she hoped the former, and 
wished she could be sure — had infected us; and, as she was 
really uneasy about him, she would not let him sleep in the 
mullion room, but having nowhere else to bestow him, she 
turned out the man-servant and put him into the little 
room beyond mine, and she also foi’bade any mention of 
the subject to him that day. 

This was a sore prohibition to Emily, who had been dis- 
cussing it with the otlier ladies, and was in a mingled state 
of elation at the romance, and terror at the supernatural, 
which found vent in excited giggle, and moved Griff' to 
cram her with raw-head and bloody-bone horrors, conven- 
tional enough to be suspicious, and send her to me tearfully 
to entreat to know the truth. If by day she exulted in a 
haunted chamber, in the evening she paid for it by terrors 
at walking about the house alone, and, when sent on an 
errand by my mother, looked piteous enough to be laughed 
at or scolded on all sides. 

The gentlemen had more serious colloquies, and the up- 
shot was a determination to sit up together and discover 
the origin of the annoyance. Mr. Stafford '’s antiquarian 
researches had made him familiar with such mysteries, and 


80 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


enough of them had been explained by natural causes to 
convince him that there was a key to all the rest. Owls, 
coiners, and smugglers had all been convicted of simulating 
ghosts. In one venerable mansion, behind the wainscot, 
there had been discovered nine skeletons of cats in different 
stages of decay, having trapped themselves at various in- 
tervals of time, and during the gradual extinction of their 
eighty-one lives having emitted cries enough to establish 
the ghastly reputation of the place. Perhaps Mr. Hender- 
son was inclined to believe there were moi'e things in 
heaven and earth than were dreamed of in even an an- 
tiquaiy^s philosophy. He owned himself perplexed, but 
reserved his opinion. 

At breakfast Clarence was quite well, except for the re- 
mains of his sore-throat, and the two seniors were gruff and 
brief as to their watch. They had heard odd noises, and 
should discover the cause; the carpenter had already been 
sent for, and they had seen a light which was certainly due 
to reflection or refraction. Mr. Henderson committed 
himself to nothing but that “ it was very extraordinary;’^ 
and there was a wicked look of diversion on Griff’s face, 
and an exchange of glances. Afterward, in our own 
domain, we extracted a good deal more from them. 

Gi-iff told us how the two elders started on politics, and 
denoimced Brougham and O’Connell loud enough to terrify 
any save the most undaunted ghost, till Henderson said 
“Hush!” and they paused at the moan with which the 
performance always commenced, making Mr. Stafford turn, 
as Griff said, “ white in the gills,” though he talked of the 
wind on the stillest of frosty nights. Then came the sob- 
bing and wailing, which certainly overawed them all; Hen- 
derson called them “ agonizing,” but Griff was in a man- 
ner inured to this, and felt as if master of the ceremonies. 
Let them say what they would by daylight about owls, cats, 
and rats, they owned the human element then, and were 
far from comfortable, though they would not compromise 
their good sense by owning what both their younger com- 
2)anions had pBrceived — their feeling of some undefinable 
presence. Vain attempts had been made to account for the 
light or get rid of it by changing the position of candles or 
bright objects in the outer room; and Henderson had shut 
himself into the bedroom with itj but there he still only 
saw the hazy light — though all was otherwise pitch-dark. 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


81 


except the key-hole and -the small gray patch of sky at the 
top of the window-shutters. “ You saw nothing else?^^ 
said Griff. “ I thought I heard you break out as Clarence 
clid, just before my father opened the door.^^ 

“ Perhaps I did so. I had the sense strongly on me of 
some being in grievous distress very near me.’^ 

“ And you should have power over it/'’ suggested Emily. 
‘‘I am afraid/^ he said, “that more thorough convic- 
tion and comprehension are needed before I could address 
the thing with authority. I should like to have stayed 
longer and heard the conclusion. 

For Mr. Stafford had grown impatient and weary, and 
my father having satisfied* himself that there was something 
to be detected, would not remain to the end, and not only 
carried his companions off, but locked the doors, perhaps 
expecting to imprison some agent in a trick, and find him 
in the morning. Indeed Clarence had a dim remembrance 
of having been half wakened by some one looking in on 
him in the night, when he was sleeping heavily after his 
cold and the previous night ^s disturbance, and we suspect- 
ed, though we would not say, that our father might have 
wished to ascertain that he had no share in producing these 
appearances. He was, however, fully acquitted of all will- 
ful deception in the case, and he was not surprised, though 
he was disappointed, that his vision of the lady was sup- 
posed to be the consequence of excited imagination. 

I can’t help it,” he said to me in private. “ I have 
always seen or felt, or whatever you may call it, things that 
others do not. Don’t you remember how nobody would 
believe that I saw Lucy Brooke?” 

“ That was in the beginning of the measles. ” 

“ I know; and I will tell you something curious. When 
I was at Gibraltar I met Mrs. Emmott — ’ 

“ Mary Brooke?” 

“ Y"es; I spent a very happy Sunday with her. We 
talked over old times, and she told me that Lucy had all 
through her illness been very uneasy about having promised 
to bring me a macaw’s feather the next time we played in 
the Square gardens. It could not be sent to me for fear of 
carrying the infection, but the dear girl was too light-head- 
ed to miderstand, and kept on fretting and wandering 
about breaking her word. I have no doubt the wish car- 
ried her spirit to me the moment it was free,” he added. 


82 


CHAKTET HOUSE. 


with tears springing to his eyes. He also said that before 
the court-martial he had, night after night, dreams of sink- 
ing and drowning in huge waves, and his friend Coles 
struggling to come to his aid, but being forcibly withheld; 
and he had since learned that Coles had actually endeavored 
to come from Plymouth to bear testimony to his previous 
character, but had been refused leave, and told that he 
could do no good. 

There had been other instances of perception of a pres- 
ence and of a prescient foreboding. “It is like a sixth 
sense,'’ ^ he said, “ and a very uncomfortable one. I would 
give much to be rid of it, for it is connected with all that is 
worst in my life. I had it before Havarino, when no one 
expected an engagement. It made me believe I should be 
killed, and drove me to what was much worse — or at least 
I used to think so.^^ 

“ DonT you now?^^ I asked. 

“ No, said Clarence. “It was a great mercy that I 
did not die then. There^s something to conquer first. But 
you’ll never speak of this, Ted. I have left olf telling of 
such things — it only gives another reason for disbelieving 
me.'’^ 

However, this time his veracity was not called in question 
— but he was supposed to be under a hallucination, the 
creation of the noises acting on his imagination and mem- 
ory of the persecuted widow, which must have been some- 
where dormant in his mind, though he averred that he had 
never heard of it. It had now, however, made a strong 
impression on him; he was convinced that some crime or 
injustice had been perpetrated, and thought it ought to be 
investigated; but Griffith made us laugh at his champion- 
ship of this shadow of a shade, and even wrote some mock- 
heroic verses about it — nor would it have been easy to stir 
my father to seek for the motives of an apparition which 
no one in the family save Clarence professed to have seen. 

The noises were indisputable, but my mother began to 
suspect a cause for them. To oblige a former cook we had 
brought down with us as stable-boy her son, George Sims, 
an imp accustomed to be the pet and jester of a mews. 
Martyn was only too fond of his company, and he made no 
secret of his contempt for the insufferable dullness of the 
country, enlivening it by various acts of monkey-mischief, 
in some of which Martyn had been imphcated. That very 


CHAKTEY HOUSE. 


83 


afternoon, as Mrs. Sophia Selby was walking home in the 
twilight from Chapman^s lodge, in company with Mr. Hen- 
derson, an eldritch yell proceeding from the vaults beneath 
the mullion chambers nearly frightened her into fits. Hen- 
derson darted in and captured the two boys in the fact. 
Mar^n^s asseveration that he had taken the pair for Griif 
and Emily would have pacified the good-natured clergy- 
man, but Mrs. Sophia was too much agitated, or too spite- 
ful, as we declared, not to make a scene. 

Martyn spent the evening alone and in disgrace, and only 
his unimpeachable character for truth caused the accept- 
ance of his affirmation that the yell was an impromptu 
fraternal compliment, and that he had nothing to do with 
the noises in the mullion chamber. He h^ been sup- 
posed to be perfectly unconscious of anything of the kind, 
and to have never so much as heard of a phantom, so my 
mother was taken somewhat aback when, in reply to her 
demand whether he had ever been so naughty as to assist 
George in making a noise in Clarence’s room, he said, 
“ Why, that’s the ghost of the lady that was murdered atop 
of the steps, and always walks every Christmas!” 

“Who told you such ridiculous nonsense?” 

The answer “ George ” was deemed conclusive that all 
had been got up by that youth ; and there was considerable 
evidence of his talent for ventriloquism and taste for prac- 
tical jokes. My mother was certain that, having heard of 
the popular superstition, he had acted ghost. She ap- 
pealed to “ Woodstock” to prove the practicability of such 
feats; and her absolute conviction persuaded the maids 
(who had given warning en masse) that the enemy was exor- 
cised when George Sims had been sent off on the Royal 
Mail under Clarence’s guardianship. 

None of the junior part of the family believed him guilty, 
but he had hunted the cows round the paddock, mounted 
on my donkey, had nearly shot the kitchen-maid with 
Griff’s gun, and, if not much maligned, knew the way to 
the apple-chamber only too well — so that he richly deserved 
his doom, rejoiced in it himself, and was unregretted save 
by Martyn. Clarence viewed him in the light of a victim, 
and tried to keep an eye on him, but he developed his 
talent as a ventriloquist, made his fortune, and retired on 
a public-house. 

My mother would fain have had the vaults under the 


84 


CHAi^TRY HOUSE. 


niullioii rooms bricked up, but Mr. Stafford cried out on 
the barbarism of such a proceeding. The mystery was de- 
clared to be solved, and was added to Mr. Stafford's good 
stories of haunted houses. 

And at home my father forbade any further mention of 
such rank folly and deception. The inner mullion cham- 
ber was turned into a lumber-room, and as weeks passed by 
without hearing or seeing any more of lady or of lamp, we 
began to credit the wonderful freaks of the goblin page. 

1 T 


CHAPTER XVI. 


CAT LANGUAGE. 


Soon as she parted thence — the fearful twayne, 

That blind old woman and her daughter deare. 

Came forth, and finding Kirkrapine there slayne. 

For anguish greate they gan to rend their heare • 

And beate their breasts, and naked flesh to tearc; 

And when they both had wept and wayled their fill. 

Then forth they ran, like two amazed deere. 

Half mad through malice and revenging will. 

To follow her that was the causer of their ill. 

Spenser. 

The Christmas vacation was not without another breeze 
about Griffith's expense at Oxford. He held his head high, 
and declared that people expected something from the 
eldest son of a man of property, and my father tried to con- 
vince him that a landed estate often left less cash available 
than did the fixed salary of an office. Griff treated all in 
his light, good-humored way, promised to be careful, and 
came to me to commiserate the poor old gentleman^ s igno- 
rance of the ways of the new generation. 

There ensued some trying weeks of dark days, raw frost, 
and black east wind, when the home party cast longing, 
lingering recollections back to the social intercourse, lamp- 
lit streets, and ready interchange of books and other 
amenities we had left behind us. We were not accustomed 
to have our nearest neighbors separated from us by two 
mile^ of dirty lane, or road mended with excruciating stones, 
nor were they very congenial when we did see them. The 
Eordyce family might -be interesting, but we younger ones 
could not forget the slight to Clarence, and, besides, the 
girls seemed to be entirely in the school-room, Mrs. Eordyce 


CHAKTEY HOUSE. 


85 


was delicate and was sliut up all the winter, and the only 
intercourse that took place was when my father met the 
elder Mr. Fordyce at the magistrates^ bench; also there was 
a conference about Amos Bell, who was preferred to the 
post left vacant by George Sims, in right of his being our 
tenant, but more civihzed th^n Earlscombers, a widow ^s 
son, and not sufficiently recovered from his accident to be 
exposed to the severe tasks of a plowboy in the whiter. 

Mrs. Fordyce was the manager of a book-club, which 
circulated volumes covered in white cartridge paper, with a 
printed list of the subscribers’ names. Two volumes at a 
time might be kept for a month by each member in rota- 
tion, novels were excluded, and the manager had a veto on 
all orders. We found her more liberal than some of our 
other neighbors, who looked on our wants and wishes with 
suspicion as savoring of London notions. Happily we 
could read old books and standard books over again, and 
we gloated oveu“ Blackwood” and the “ Quarterly,” en- 
joying, too, every out-of-door novelty of the coming spring, 
as each revealed itself. Emily will never forget her first 
jirimroses, nor I the first thrush in early morning. 

Blankets, broth, and what were uncomfortably termed 
broken victuals, had been given away during the winter, 
and a bewildering amount of begging women and children 
used to ask interviews with ‘‘the Lady Winslow,” with 
stories that crumbled on investigation so as to make us 
recollect the rector’s character of Earlscombe. 

However, Mr. Henderson came in the second week of 
Lent, and what our steps toward improvement introduced 
would have seemed almost as shocking to you youngsters 
as what they displaced. For instance, a plain crimson 
cloth covered the altar, instead of the rags in the colors of 
the Winslow livery, presented, according to the queer old 
register, by the unfortunate Margaret. There was talk of 
velvet and the gold monogram, surrounded by rays, alter- 
nately straight and wavy, as in our London church, but 
this was voted “ unfit for a plain village church.” Still, 
the new hangings of pulpit, desk, and altar were all good in 
quality and color, and huge square cushions were provided 
as essential to each. Moreover, the altar vessels were made 
somewhat more respectable — all this being at my father’s 
expense. 

He also carried in the vestry, though not without strong 


86 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


opposition from a dissenting farmer, that new linen and a 
fresh surplice should be provided by the parish, which sur- 
plice would have made at least six of such as are at present 
worn. The farmers were very Jealous of the interference 
of the squire in the vestry — “ what he had no call to,^^ and 
of church rates applied to any other object than the reward 
of bird-slayers, as thus, in the register — 


Hairy Wills, 1 score sprows beds 

2d. 

Jems Brown, 1 poulcat . . . , 

6d. 

Jargo Bell, 2 howls 

6d. 


It was several years before this appropriation of the 
church rates could be abolished. The year 1830, with a 
brand-new squire and parson, was too ticklish a time for 
many innovations. 

Hillside Church was the only one in the neighborhood 
where Holy Week or Ascension Day had been observed in 
the memory of man. When we proposed going to church 
on the latter day the gardener asked my mother “ if it was 
her will to keep Thursday holy,^^ as if he expected its sub- 
stitution for Sunday. Monthly Communions and baptisms 
after the second lesson were viewed as “ not fit for a coun- 
try church, and every attempt at even more secular im- 
provements was treated with the most disappointing dis- 
trust and aversion. When my father laid out the allotment 
grounds, the laborers suspected some occult design for his 
own profit, and the farmers objected that the gardens 
would be used as an excuse for neglecting their work and 
stealing their potatoes. Coal-club and clothing-club were 
regarded in like manner, and while a few took advantage of 
these offers in a grudging manner, the others viewed every- 
thing .except absolute gifts as “ me-an on our part, the 
principle of aid to self-help being an absolute novelty. 
When I look back to the notes in our Journals of that date 
I see how much has been overcome. 

Perhaps we listened more than was strictly wise to the 
revelations of Amos Bell, when he attended Emily and me 
on our expeditions with the donkey. Though living over 
the border of Hillside, he had a family of relations at Earls- 
combe, and for a time lodged with his grandmother there. 
When his shyness and lumpishness gave way, he proved so 
bright that Emily undertook to carry on his education. He 
soon had a wonderful eye for a wild flower, and would 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


87 


climb after it with the utmost agility; and when once his 
tongue was loosed, he became almost too communicative, 
and made us acquainted with the opinions of “ they Earls- 
coom folk with a freedom not to be found in an elder or 
a native. 

Moreover, he was the brightest light of the Sunday-school 
which Mr. Henderson opened at once — for want of a more 
fitting place — in the disused north transept of the church. 
It was an uncouth, ill-clad crew which assembled on those 
dilapidated paving-tiles. Their own grandchildren looked 
almost as far removed from them in dress and civilization 
as did my sister in her white worked cambric dress, silk 
scarf, huge Tuscan bonnet, and the little curls beyond the 
lace quilling round her bright face, far rosier than ever it 
had been in town. And what would the present genera- 
tion say to the odd little contrivances in the way of cotton 
sun-bonnets, check pinafores, list tippets and print capes, 
and other wonderful manufactures from the rag-bag, which 
were then grand prizes and stimulants? 

Previous knowledge or intelligence scarcely existed, and 
then was not due to Dame Dearlove^s tuition. Mr. Hen- 
derson pronounced an authorized school a necessity. My 
father had scruples as to vested rights, for the old woman 
was the last survivor of a family who had had recourse to 
primer and hornbook after their ejection on ‘‘ black Bar- 
tholomew^ s-day;^^ and when the meetingdiouse was built 
after the Revolution, had combined preaching with teach- 
ing. Monopoly had promoted degeneracy, and this last of 
the race was an unfavorable specimen in all save outward 
picturesqueness. However, much against Henderson ^s 
liking, an accommodation was proposed, by which books 
were to be supplied to her, and the Church Catechism be 
taught in her school, with the assistance of the curate and 
Miss Winslow. 

The terms were rejected with scorn. No school-board 
could be more determined against the catechism, nor 
against ‘‘ passons meddling wi'’ she;^^ and as to assistance, 
“she had been a governess this thirty year, and didnT 
want no one trapesing in and out of her school. 

She was warned, but probably did not believe in the pos- 
sibility of an opposition school; and really there were chil- 
dren enough in the place to overfill both her room and that 
which was fitted up after a very humble fashion in one of 


88 


CHA^TTEY HOUSE. 


our cottages. H. M. Inspector would hardly have thought 
it even worth condemnation any more than the attainments 
of the mistress, the young widow of a small Bristol skip- 
per. Her qualifications consisted in her piety and con- 
scientiousness, good temper and excellent needle-work, 
together with her having been a scholar in one of Mrs. 
Hannah Morels schools in the Cheddar district. ' She could 
read and teach reading well; but as for the dangerous ac- 
complishments of writing and arithmetic, such as desired 
to pass beyond the rudiments of them must go to Wat- 
tlesea. 

So nice did she look in her black that Earlscomhe voted 
her a mere town lady, and even at a penny a week hesi- 
tated to send its children to her. Indeed it was currently 
reported that her school was part of a deep and nefarious 
scheme of the gentlefolks for reducing the poor-rates by 
enticing the children, and then shipping them off to foreign 
parts from Bristol. 

But the great crisis was one unlucky summer evening 
when Emily and I were out with the donkey, and Griffith, 
j list come home from Oxford, was airing the new acquisition 
of a handsome black retriever. 

Close by the old chapel, a black cat was leisurely cross- 
ing the road. At her dashed Hero, stimulated perhaps by 
an almost mvoluntaiy scss — scss — from his master, if not 
from Amos and me. The cat flew up a low wall, and 
stood at bay on the top on tiptoe, with bristling tail, 
arched back and fiery eyes, while the dog danced round in 
agony on his hind-legs, barking furiously, and almost reach- 
ing her. Female sympathy ever goes to the cat, and Emily 
screamed out in the fear that he would seize her, or even 
that Griff might aid him. Perhaps Amos would have done 
so, if left' to himself; but Griff, who saw the cat was safe, 
could not help egging on his dog^s impotent rage, when in 
the midst, out flew pussy^s mistress. Dame Dearlove her- 
self, broomstick in hand, using language as vituperative as 
the caps, and more intelligible. 

She was about to strike the dog — indeed, I fancy she did, 
for there was a howl, and Griff sprung to his defense with 
— “ Don^t hurt my dog,- 1 say! He hasnH touched the 
brute I She can take care of herself. Here, there^s half-a- 
crown for the fright, as the cat sprung down within the 
wall, and Nero slunk behind him. But Dame Dearlove 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


89 


was not so easily appeased. Her blood was up after our 
long series of offenses, and she broke into a regular tirade 
of abuse. 

• “ That’s the way with you fine folk, thinking you can 
tread down poor people like the dirt under your feet, and 
insult ’em when you’ve taken the bread out of the mouths 
of them that were here before you. Passons and ladies a- 
nieddlin’ wherb no one ever set a foot before! Ay, ay, but 
ye’ll all be down before long.” 

Griff signed to us to go on, and thundered out on her to 
take care what she was about and not be abusive; but this 
brought a fresh volley on liim, heralded by a derisive laugh. 
“ Ha! ha! fine talking for the likes of you, Winslows that 
you are. But there’s a curse on you all! The poor lady as 
was murdered won’t let you be! Why, there’s one of you, 
poor humpy object — ” 

At this savage attack on me. Griff waxed furious, and 
shouted at her to hold her confounded tongue, but this only 
diverted the attack on himself. ‘‘And as for you — fine 
chap as ye think yourself, swaggering and swearing at poor 
folk, and setting your dog at them — ^your time’s coming. 
Look out for yourself. It’s well known as how the curse is 
on the first-born. The Lady Margaret don’t let none of 
’em live to come after his father.” 

Griff laughed and said, “ There, we have had enough of 
this;” and in fact we had already moved on, so that he had 
to make some long steps to overtake us, muttering, ‘ ‘ So 
we’ve started a Meg Merrilies! My father won’t keep such 
a foul-mouthed hag in the parish long!” 

To which I had to respond that her cottage belonged to 
the trustees of the chapel, whereat he whistled. I don’t 
think he knew that we had heard her final denunciation, 
and we did not like to mention it to him, scarcely to each 
other, though Emily looked very white and scared. 

We talked it over afterward in private, and with Hen- 
derson, who confessed that he had heard of the old wom- 
an’s saying something of the kind to other persons. We 
consulted the registers in hopes of confuting it, but did not 
satisfy ourselves. The last squire had lost his only son at 
school. He himself had been originally second in the 
family, and in the generation before him there had been 
some child-deaths, after which we came back to a young 
man, apparently the eldest, who, according to Miss Selby’s 


90 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


story, had been killed in a duel by one of the Fordyces. It 
was not comfortable, till I remembered that our family 
Bible recorded the birth, baptism and death of a son who 
had preceded Griffith, and only borne for a day the name 
afterward bestowed on me. 

And Henderson, who was so little our elder as to discuss 
things on' fairly equal grounds, had some very interesting 
talks with us two over ancestral sin and its possible effects, 
dwelling on the 18th of Ezekiel as a comment on the Second 
Commandment. Indeed, we agreed that the uncomforta- 
ble state of disaffection which, in 1830, was becoming only 
too manifest in the populace, was the result of neglect in 
former ages, and that, even in our own parish, the bitter- 
ness, distrust and ingratitude were due to the careless, 
riotous and oppressive family whom we represented. 


CHAPTEE XVII. 

THE SIEGE OF HILLSIDE. 

Ferments arise, imprisoned factions roar, 

Represt ambition struggles round the shore; 

Till, overwrought, the general system feels 
Its motion stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. 

Goldsmith. 

Griffith had come straight home this year. There were 
no Peacock gayeties to tempt him in London, for old Sir 
Henry had died suddenly soon after the ball in December; 
nor was there much of a season that year, owing to the ill- 
ness and death of George IV. 

A regiment containing two old school-mates of his was at 
Bristol, and he spent a good deal of time there, and also in 
Yeomanry drill. As autumn came on we rejoiced in hav- 
ing so stalwart a protector, for the agricultural riots had 
begun, and the forebodings of another French Revolution 
seemed about to be realized. We stayed on at Chantry 
House. My father thought his duty lay there as a magis- 
trate, and my mother would not leave him; nor indeed was 
any other place much safer, certainly not London, whence 
Clarence wrote accounts of formidable mobs who were ex- 
pected to do more harm than they accomplished; though 
their hatred of the hero of our country filled us with dire- 
ful prognostications, and made us think of the guillotine. 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


91 


which was linked with revolution in our minds, before we 
had beheld the numerous changes that followed upon the 
thirty years of peace in which we grew up. 

The ladies did not much like losing so stalwart a defender 
when Griff returned to Oxford; and Jane tha house-maid 
went to bed every night with the pepper-pot and a poker, 
the first wherewith to blind the enemy, the second to ciiarge 
them with. From our height we could more than once see 
blazing ricks, and were glad lhat the home farm was not in 
our own hands, and that our only stack of hay was a good 
way from the house. When the onset came at last, it was 
December, and the enemy only consisted of about thirty 
dreary-looking men and boys in smock-frocks and chalked 
or smutted faces, armed only with sticks and an old gun 
diverted from its purpose of bird-scaring. They shouted 
for food, money and arms; but my father spoke to them 
from the hall steps, told them they had better go home and 
learn that the public-house was a worse enemy to them than 
any machine that had ever been invented, and assured them 
that they would get no help from him in breaking the laws 
and getting themselves into trouble. A stone or two was 
picked up, whereupon he went back and had the hall door 
shut and barred, the heavy shutters of the windows having 
all been closed already, so that we could have stood a much 
more severe siege than from these poor fellows. One or two 
windows were broken, as well as the glass of the conserva- 
tory, and the fiower-beds were trampled; but finding our 
fortress impregnable they sneaked away before dark. We 
fared better than our neighbors, some of whom were seri- 
ously frightened, and suff'eTed loss of property. Old Mr. 
Fordyce had for many years past been an active magistrate 
— that a clergyman should be on the bench having been 
quite correct according to the notions of his younger days; 
and in spite of his beneficence he incurred a good deal of 
unpopularity for withstanding the lax good-nature which 
made his brother magistrates give orders for parish rehef 
refused to able-bodied paupers by their own vestries. This 
was a mischievous abuse of the old poor-law times, which 
made people dispose of every one^s money save their own. 
He had also been a keen sportsman; and though his son 
had given up field sports in deference to higher notions of 
clerical duty (his wife's, as people said), the old man's feel- 
ings prompted him to severity on poachers. Frank Fordyce, 


92 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


while by far the most earnest, hard-working clergyman in 
the neighborhood, worked off his superfluous energy on 
scientific farming, making the glebe and the hereditary 
estate as much the model farm as Hillside was the model 
parish. He had lately set up a threshing-machine worked 
by horses, which was as much admired by the intelligent as 
it was vituperated by the ignorant. 

Neither paupers nor poachers, abounded in Hillside; the 
natives were chiefly tenants and. employed on the property, ‘ 
and, between good management and beneficence, there 
was little real want and much friendly confidence and 
affection; and thus, in spite of surrounding riots. Hillside 
seemed likely to be an exception, proving what could be 
done by rightful care and attention. Nor indeed did the 
attack come from thence; but the two parsons were bitterly 
hated by outsiders beyond the reach of theii* personal influ- 
ence and benevolence. 

It was on a Saturday evening, the day after Griff had 
come back for the Christmas vacation, that, as Emily was 
giving Amos his lesson, she saw that the boy was crying, 
and after examination he let out that “ folk should say that 
the lads were agoing to break Parson Eordy^s machine and 
fire his ricks that very night but he would not give his 
authority, and when he saw her about to give warning, en- 
treated, “ Now, donH ze say nothing. Miss Emily — 

‘‘ What?’^ she cried indignantly; ‘‘ do you think 1 could 
hear of such a thing without trying to stop it?’^ 

‘‘ IJs says,^^ he blurted out, ‘‘ as how Winslows be al- 
ways fain of ought as happens to the Fordj^s — ” 

“We are not such wicked Winslows as you have heard 
of,^^ returned Emily with dignity; and she rushed oft' in 
quest of papa and Griff, but when she brought them to the 
book-room, Amos had decamped, and was nowhere to be 
found that night. We afterward learned that he lay hidden 
in the hay-loft, not daring to return to his granny^ lest 
the should be suspected of being a traitor to his kind; for 
our lawless, untamed, discontented parish furnished a large 
quota to the rioters, and he has since told me that though 
all seemed to know what was about to be done, he did not 
hear it from any one m particular. 

It was no time to make light of a warning, but veiy diffi- 
cult to know what to do. Rural police were non-existent; 
there were no soldiers nearer than Keynsham, and the 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


93 


Yeomanry were all in their own homesteads. However, 
the captain* of Griffis troop. Sir George Eastwood, lived 
about three miles beyond Wattlesea, and had a good many 
dependents in the corps, so it was resolved to send him a 
note by the gardener, good James Ellis, a steady, resolute 
man, on Emily^’s fast-trotting pony, while my father and 
Griff should hasten to Hillside to warn the Fordyces, who 
were not unlikely to be able to muster trustworthy defend- 
ers among their own people, and might send the ladies to 
take shelter at Chantry House. 

My mother^s brave spirit disdained to detain an effective 
man for her own protection, and the groom was to go to 
Hillside; he was in the Yeomanry, and, like Griff, put on 
his uniform, while my father had the Kiot Act in his pock- 
et. - All the horses were thus absorbed, but Chapman and 
the man-servant followed on foot. ‘ 

Never did I feel my incapacity more than on that strange 
night, when Emily was flying about with Martyn to all the 
doors and windows in a wild state of excitement, humming 
to herself — 

“ AVhen the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray, 

My true love has mounted his steed and away.” 

My mother was equally restless, prolonging as much as 
possible the preparation of rooms for possible guests; and 
when she did come and sit down, she netted her purse with 
vehement jerks, and scolded Emily for jumping up and 
leaving doors open. 

At last, after an hour according to the clock, but far 
more by our feelings, wheels were heard in the distance; 
Emily was off like a shot to reconnoiter, and presently 
Martyn bounced in with the tidings that a pair of carriage 
lamps were coming up the drive. My mother hurried out 
into the hall; I made my best speed after her, and found 
her hastily undoing the door-chain as she recognized the 
measured, courteous voice of old Mr. Fordyce. In a mo- 
ment more they were all in the house, the old gentleman 
giving his arm to his daughter-in-law, who was quite over- 
come with distress and alarm; then came his tall, slim 
granddaughter, carrying her little sister with arms full of 
dolls, and sundry maid-servants completed the party of 
fugitives. 

“ We are taking advantage of Mr. Winslow^s goodness, 


94 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


said the old rector. He assured us that you would be 
kind enough to receive those who would only be an incum- 
brance. ” 

‘‘ Oh, but I must go back to Frank now that you and 
the children are safe,^^ cried the poor lady. Don^’t send 
away the carriage; I must go back to Frank. 

“ Nonsense, my dear,^^ returned Mr. Fordyce, ‘‘ Frank 
is in no danger. He will get on much better for knowing 
you are safe. Mrs. Winslow will tell you so. 

My mother was enforcing this assurance, when the little 
girFs sobs burst out in spite of her sister, who had been 
trying to console her. ‘‘It is Celestina Mary,^^ she cried, 
pointing to three dolls which she had carried in clasped to 
her breast. “ Poor Celestina Mary! She is left behind, 
and Ellen won^t let me go and see if she is in the carriage. 

“ My dear, if she is in the carriage, she will be quite safe 
in the morning. 

“ Oh, but she will be so cold. She had nothing on but 
Rosella^s old petticoat.'’^ 

The distress was so real that I had my hand on the bell 
to cause a search to be instituted for the missing damsel, 
when Mrs. Fordyce begged me to do no such thing, as it 
was only a doll. The child, while endeavoring to shelter 
with a shawl the dolls, snatched in theii’ night-gear from 
their beds, wept so piteously at the rebuff that her grand- 
father had nearly gone in quest of the lost one, but was 
stopped by a special entreaty that he would not spoil the 
child. Martyn, however, who had been standing in open- 
mouthed wonder at such feeling for a doll, exclaimed, 
“ DonT cry, donT cry. ITl go and get it for you;^^ and 
rushed off to the stable-yard. 

This episode had restored Mrs. Fordyce, and while pro- 
viding some of our guests with wine, and others with tea, 
we heard the story, only interruped by Martyn^ s return 
from a vain search, and Annex’s consequent tears, which, 
however, were somehow hushed and smothered by fears of 
being sent to bed, coupled with his promises to search every 
step of the way to-morrow. 


It appeared that while the Fordyce family were at dinner, 
shouts, howls, and yells had startled them. The rabble had 
surrounded the rectory, bawling out abuse of the parsons 
and their machines, and occasionally throwing stones. 
There was no help to be expected; the only hope was in 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


96 


the strength of the doors and windows, and the knowledge 
that personal violence was very uncommon; but those were 
terrible moments, and poor Mrs. Fordyce was nearly dead 
with suppressed terror when her husband tried haranguing 
from an upper window, and was received with* execrations 
and a volley of stones, while the glass crashed round him. 

At that instant the shouts turned to yells of dismay, 
“ The soldiers! the soMiers!^^ 

Our party had found everything still and dark in the 
village, for in truth the men had hidden themselves. They 
were too much attached to their masters to Join in the 
attack, but were afraid of being compelled to assist the 
rioters, and not resolute enough against their own class 
either to inform against them or oppose them. 

Through the midnight-like stillness of the street rose the 
tumult around the rectory; and by the light of a few lan- 
terns, and from the upper windows, they could see a mass 
of old hats, smock-f rocked shoulders, and the tops of blud- 
geons; while at soonest. Sir George Eastwood^s troop could 
not be expected for an hour or more. 

“We must get to them somehow,'’ said my father and 
Griff to one another; and Griff added, “ These rascals are 
arrant cowards, and they canT see the number of us.**^ 
Then, before my father knew what he was about — cer- 
tainly before he could get hold of the Kiot Act — he found 
the stable lantern made over to him, and Griff^’s sword flash- 
ing in light, as, making all possible clatter and jingling 
with their accouterments, the two yeomen dashed among 
the throng, shouting with all their might, and striking with 
the flat of their sword. The rioters, ill-fed, dull-hearted 
men for the most part — many dragged out by compulsion, 
and already terrified — went tumbling over one another and 
running off headlong, bearing off with them (as we after- 
ward learned) their leaders by their weight, taking the 
blows and pushes they gave one another in their pell-mell 
rush for those of the soldiery, and falling blindly against 
the low wall of the inclosure. The only difficulty was in 
clearing them out at the two gates of the drive. 

When Mr. Fordyce opened the door to hail his rescuers 
he was utterly amazed to behold only three, and asked in a 
bewildered voice, “ Where are the others?^ ^ 

There were two prisoners. Petty the rat-catcher, who had 
attempted some resistance and hil been knocked down by 


96 


CHAN^TRY HOUSE. 


GrilFs horse, and a young lad in a smock-frock who had 
fallen off the wall and hurt his knee, and who blubbered 
piteously, declaring that them chaps had forced him to go 
with them or they would duck him in the horse-pond. 
They were supposed to be given in charge to some one, 
but were lost sight of, and no wonder! For just then it 
was discovered that the machine shed was on fire. The 
rioters had apparently detached one of their number to 
kindle the flame before assaulting the house. The matter 
was specially serious, because the stackyard was on a line 
with the rectory, at some distance indeed, but on lower 
ground; and what with barns, hay, and wheat ricks, sheds, 
cow-houses, and stables, all thatched, a big wood-pile, and 
a long old-fashioned greenhouse, there was almost contin- 
uous communication. Clouds of smoke and an ominous 
smell were already perceptible on the wind, generated by 
the heat, and the loose straw in the center of the farm- 
yard was beginning to be ignited by the flakes and sparks, 
carrying the mischief everywhere, and rendering it exceed- 
ingly difficult to release the animals and drive them to a 
place of safety. Water was scarce. There were only two 
wells, besides the pump in the house, and a shallow pond. 
The brook was a quarter of a mile off in the valley, and 
the nearest engine, a poor feeble thing, at Wattlesea. 
Moreover, the assailants might discover how small was the 
force of rescuers, and return to the attack. Thus, while 
Griff, who had given amateur assistance at all the fires he 
could reach in London, was striving to organize resistance 
to this new .enemy, my father induced the gentlemen to 
cause the horses to be put to the various vehicles, and em- 
ploy them in carrying the women and children to Chantry 
House. The old rector was persuaded to go to take care of 
his daughter-in-law, and she only thought of putting her 
girls in safety. She listened to reason, and indeed was too 
much exhausted to move when once she was laid on the 
sofa. She would not hear of going to bed, though her lit- 
tle daughter Anne was sent off with her nurse, grandpapa 
persuading her that Rosella and the others were very much 
tired. When she was gone, he declared his fears that he 
had sat down on Celestina’shead, and showed so much com- 
punction that we were much amused at his relief when 
Martyn assured him of having searched the carriage with a 
stable lantern, so that whatever had befallen the lady he 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


97 


was not the guilty person. He really seemed more con- 
cerned about this than at the loss of all his own barns and 
stores. And little Anne was certainly as lovely and engag- 
ing a little creature as, ever I saw; while, as to her elder 
sister, in all the trouble and anxiety of the night, I could 
not help enjoying the sight of her beautiful eager face and 
form. She was tall and very slight, sylph-like, as it was 
the fashion to call it, but every limb was instinct with grace 
and animation. Her face was, perhaps, rather too thin 
for robust health, though this enhanced the idea of her be- 
ing all spirit, as also did the transparency of complexion, 
tinted with an exquisite varying carnation. Her eyes were 
of a clear, bright, rather light brown, and were sparkling 
with the luster of excitement, her delicate lips parted, show- 
ing the pretty pearl teeth, as she was telling Emily, in a 
low voice of enthusiasm, scarcely designed for my ears, how 
glorious a sight our brother had been, riding there in his 
glancing silver, bearing down all before him with his good 
sword, like the Captal de Buch dispersing the Jacquerie. 

To which Emily responded, ‘‘ Oh, donH you love the 
Captal de Buch.^’^ And their friendship was cemented. 

Next I heard, ‘‘ And that you should have been so good 
after all my rudeness. But I thought you were like the old 
Winslows; and instead of that you have come to the rescue 
of your enemies. Isn’t it beautiful?” 

Oh, no, not enemies,” said Emily. “That was all 
over a hundred years ago. ’ 

“So my papa and grandpapa say,” returned Miss Eor- 
dyce; “ but the last Mr. Winslow was not a very nice man, 
and never would be civil to us. ” 

A report was brought that the glare of the fire could be 
seen over the hill from the top of the house, and ofi went 
the two young ladies to the leads, after satisfying them- 
selves that Anne was asleep among her homeless dolls. 

Old Mr. Fordyce devoted himself to keeping up the 
spirits of his daughter-in-law, as the night advanced with- 
out any tidings, except that the girls, from time to time, 
rushed down to tell us of fresh outbursts of red fiame re- 
fiected in the sky, then that the glow was diminishing; by 
which time they were tired out, and, both sinking into a 
big arm-chair, they went to sleep in each other’s arms. In- 
deed I believe we all dozed more or less before any one re- 
turned from the scene of action — at about three o’clock. 

4 , . 


98 


CHA^^TEY HOUSE. 


The struggle with the flames had been very unequal. The 
long tongues soon reached the roof of the large barn, which 
was filled with straw, nor could the flakes of burning thatch 
be kept from the stable, while the water of the pond was 
soon reduced to mud. Helpers began to flock in, but who 
could tell which were trustworthy? — and all were uncom- 
prehending. 

There was so little hope of saving the house that the re- 
moval of everything valuable was begun under my father's 
superintendence. Frank Fordyce was here, there, and 
everywhere; while Griffith, like a gallant general, fought 
the foe with very helpless unmanageable forces. Villagers, 
male and female, had emerged and stood gaping round; 
but, let him rage and storm as he might, they would not 
go and collect pails and buckets and form a line to the brook. 
Still less would they assist in overthrowing and carrying 
away the fagots of a big wood-pile so as to cut off the com- 
munication with the offices. Only Chapman and one other 
man gave any help in this; and presently the stack caught, 
and Griff, on the top, was in great peril of the fagots 
rolling down with him into the middle, and imprisoning 
him in the blazing pile. “ I never felt so like Dido," said 
Griff. 

That woodstack gave fearful aliment to the roaring flame, 
which came on so fast that the destruction of the adjoining 
buildings quickly followed. The A\^attlesea engine had 
come, but the yard well was unattainable, and all that 
could be done was to saturate the house with water from 
its own well, and cover the side with wet blankets; but 
these reeked with steam, and then shriveled away in the 
intense glow of heat. 

However, by this time the Eastwood Yeomanry, together 
with some reasonable men, had arrived. A raid was made 
on the cottages for buckets, a chain formed to the river, 
and at last the fire was got under, having made a wreck of 
everything out-of-doors, and consumed one whole wing of 
the house, though the older and more esteemed portion was 
saved. 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


99 


CHAPTER XVIIL 

THE PORTRAIT. 

When day was gone and night was come, 

And all men fast asleep, 

There came the spirit of fair Marg’ret 
And stood at William’s feet. 

Scotch Ballad. 

Whek I emerged from my room the next morning the 
phaeton was at the door to take the two clergymen to re- 
connoiter their abode before going to church. Miss For- 
• dyce went with them, and my father was for once about to 
leave his parish church to give them his sympathy, and Join 
in their thanksgiving that neither life nor limb had been in- 
jured. 

He afterward said that nothing could have been more 
touching than old Mr. Fordyce’s manner of mentioning 
this special cause for gratitude before the General Thanks- 
giving; and Frank Fordyce, having had alt his sermons 
burned, gave a short address extempore (a very rare and 
almost shocking thing at that date), reducing half of the 
congregation to tears, for they really loved “ the family, 
though they had not sprit enough to defend it; and their 
passiveness-always remained a subject of pride and pleasure 
to the Fordyces. It was against the will of these good 
people that Petty, the rat-catcher, was arrested, but he had 
been engaged in other outrages, though this was the only 
one in which a dwelling-house had suffered. And Chap- 
man observed that “there was nothing to be done with 
such chaps but to string ^em up out of the way.^’’ 

Griff' had toiled that night till he was as stiff as a rheu- 
matic old man when he came down only just in time for 
luncheon. Mrs. Fordyce did not appear atr all. She was 
a fragile creature, and quite knocked up by the agitations 
of the night. The gentlemen had visited the desoJate I'ec- 
tory, and found that though the fine ancient kitchen had 
escaped, the pleasant living-rooms had been injured by the 
water, and the place could hardly be made habitable before 
the spring. They proposed to take a house in Bath, whence 
Frank Fordyce could go and come for Sunday duty and 


100 


CHAKTKY HOUSE. 


general superintendence, but my parents were urgent that 
they should not leave us until after Christmas, and they 
consented. Their larger possessions were to be stored in 
the outhouses, their lesser in our house, notably in the in- 
ner mullion chamber, which would thus be so blocked that 
there would be no question of sleeping in it. 

Old Mr. Fordyce had ascertained that he might acquit 
himself of smashing Celestina Mary, for no remains ap- 
peared in the carriage; but a miserable* trunk was discov- 
ered in the ruins, which he identified — though surely no 
one else save the disconsolate parent could have done so. 
Poor little Anne’s private possessions had suffered most 
severely of all, for her whole nursery establishment had 
vanished. Her surviving dolls were left homeless, and de- 
void of all save their night-clothing, which concerned her ' 
much more than the loss of almost all her own garments. 
For what dolls were to her could never have been guessed 
by us, who had forced Emily to disdain them; whereas they 
were children to the maternal heart of this lonely child. 

She was quite a new revelation to us. All the Fordyces 
were handsome; and her qhestnut curls and splendid eyes, 
her pretty color and unconscious grace, were very charm- 
ing. Emily was so near our own age that we had never 
known the winsomeness of a little maid-child among us, 
and she was a perpetual wonder and delight to us. In- 
deed, from having always lived with her elders, she was an 
odd little old-fashioned person, advanced in'some ways, 
and comically simple in others. Her doll-heart was kept 
in abeyance all Sunday, and it yvas only on Monday that 
her anxiety for Celestina manifested itself with considerable 
vehemence; but her grandfather gravely informed her that 
the young lady was gone to an excellent doctor, who would 
soon effect a cure. The which was quite true, for he had 
sent her to a toy-shop by one of the maids who had gone 
to restore the ravage on the wardrobes, and who brought 
her back with a new head and arms, her identity appar- 
ently not being thus interfered with. The hoards of scraps 
were put under requisition to reclothe the survivors; and I 
won my first step in Miss Anne’s good graces by undertak- 
ing a knitted suit for Rosella. 

The good little girl had evidently been schooled to repress 
her dread and repugnance at my unlucky appearance, and 
was painfully polite, only shutting her eyes when she came 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


101 


to shake hands with me; but after Eosella condescended to 
adopt me, we became excellent friends. Indeed, the fol- 
lowing conversation was overheard by Emily, and set dovm : 

Do you know, Martyn*, there's a fairies' ring on Hill- 
side Down?" 

“ Mushrooms," quoth Martyn. 

“ Yes, don't you know? They are the fairies' tables. 
They come out and spread them with lily table-cloths at 
night, and have acorn cups for dishes, with honey in them. 
And they dance and play there. Well, couldn't Mr. Edward 
go and sit under the beech-tree at the edge till they come?" 

I don't think he would like it at all," said Martyn. 
‘‘ He never goes out at odd times." 

‘‘ Oh, but don't you know? when they come they begin 
to sing — 

“ ‘ Sunday and Monday, 

Monday and Tuesday.’ 

And if he was to sing nicely, 

“ ‘ Wednesday and Thursday,’ 

they would be so much pleased that they would make his 
back straight again in a moment. At least, perhaps Wednes- 
day and Thur^ay would not do, because the little tailor 
taught them those; but Friday makes them angry. But 
suppose he made some nice verse — 

“ ‘ Monday and Tuesday 
The fairies are gay, 

Tuesday and Wednesday 
They dance away — ’ 

I think that would do as well, perhaps. Do get him to do 
so, Martyn. It would be so nice if he was tall and straight. " 

Dear little thing! Martyn, who was as much her slave as 
was her grandfather, absolutely made her shed tears over 
his history of our accident, and then caressed them off; but 
I believe he persuaded her that such a case might be beyond 
the fairies' reach, and that I could hardly get to the spot in 
secret, which, it seems, is an essential point. He had 
imagination enough to be almost persuaded of fairy-land by 
her earnestness, and she certainly took him into doll -land. 
He had a turn for carpentry and contrivance, and he under- 
took that the Ladies Kosella, etc., should be better housed 
than ever. A great packing-case was routed out, and m uch 


102 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


ingenuity was expended, mucli delight obtained, in the 
process of converting it into a dolhs mansion, and replen- 
ishing it with furniture. Some was bought, but Martyn 
aspired to make whatever he could; I did a good deal, and 
I believe most of our achievements are still extant. What- 
ever we could not manage,' Clarence was to accomplish 
when he should come home. 

His arrival was, as usual, late in the evening; and, as 
before, he had the little room within mine. In the morn- 
ing, as we were crossing the hall to the bright wood fire, 
around which the family were wont to assemble before 
prayers, he came to a pause, asking under his breath, 

What^s that? Who’s that?’ ^ 

‘‘ It is one of the Hillside pictures. You know we have a 
great many things here from thence. ” 

“ It is she,” he said, in a low, awe-stricken voice. No 
need to say who she meant. 

I had not paid much attention to the picture. It had 
come with several more, such as are rife in country-houses, 
and was one of the worst of the lot, a poor imitation of 
Lely’s style, with a certain air common to all the family; 
but Clarence’s eyes were riveted on it. ‘‘ She looks 
younger,” he said; “ but it is the same. I could swear to 
the lip and the whole shape of the brow and chin. No — 
the dress is different.” 

For in the portrait, there was nothing on the head, and 
one long lock of hair fell on the shoulder of the low-cut 
white-satin dress, done in very heavy gray shading. The 
three girls came down together, and I asked who the lady 
was. 

“ Don’t you know? You ought; for that is poor Mar- 
garet who married your ancestor.” 

No more was said then, for the rest of the world was col- 
lecting, and then everybody went out their several ways. 
Some tin tacks were wanted for the dolls’ house, and there 
were reports that Wattlesea possessed a doll’s grate and 
fire-irons. The children were wild to go in quest of them, 
but they were not allowed to go alone, and it was pro- 
nounced too far and too damp for the elder sister, so that 
they would have been disappointed, if Clarence — stimulated 
by Martyn ’s kicks under the table — had not offered to be 
their escort. When Mrs. Fordyce demurred, my mother 
replied, ‘‘ You may perfectly trust her with Clarence.” 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


103 


Yes; I don^t know a safer squire/^ rejoined my father. 

Commendation was so rare that Clarence quite blushed 
with pleasure; and the pretty little thing was given into his 
charge, prancing and dancing with pleasure, and expecting 
much more from sixpence and from Wattlesea than was 
likely to be fulfilled. 

Griff went out sliooting, and the two young ladies and I 
intended to spend a very rational morning in the book- 
room, reading aloud Mme. de La Rochejaquelein^s Mem- 
oirs by turns. Our occupations were, on Emily^s part, 
completing a reticule, in a mosaic of shaded colored beads, 
no bigger than pins' heads, for a Christmas gift to mamma 
— a most wearisome business, of which she had grown ex- 
tremely tired. Miss Fordyce was elaborately copying our 
Muller's print of Eaphael's St. John in pencil on card- 
board, so as to be as near as possible a fac-simile; and she 
had trusted me to make a finished water-colored drawing 
from a rough sketch of hers of the Hillside barn and farm- 
buildings, now no more. 

In a pause Ellen Fordyce suddenly asked; “ What did 
you mean about that picture?" 

‘‘ Only Clarence said it was like — " and here Emily 
came to a dead stop. 

“ Grandpapa says it is like me," said Miss Fordyce. 
'‘What, you don't mean that? Oh! oh! oh! is it true? 
Does she walk? Have you seen her? Mamma calls it all 
nonsense, and would not have Anne hear of it for any- 
thing; but old Aunt Peggy used to tell me, and I am sure 
grandpapa believes it, just a little. Have you seen her?" 

“ Only Clarence has, and he knew the picture directly. " 

She was much impressed, and on slight persuasion re- 
lated the story, which she had heard from an elder sister of 
her grandfather's, and which had perhaps been the more 
impressed on her by her mother's consternation at “ such 
folly "having been communicated to her. Aunt Peggy, 
who was much older than her brother, had died only four 
years ago, at eighty-eight, having kept her faculties to the 
last, and handed down many traditions to her great-niece. 
The old lady's father had been contemporary with the Mar- 
garet of ghostly fame, so that the stages had been few 
through which it had come down from 1708 to 1830. 

I wrote it down at once, as it here stands. 


104 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


Margaret was the only daughter of the elder branch of 
the Fordyces. Her father had intended her to marry her 
cousin, the male heir on whom the Hillside estates and the 
advowson of that living were entailed; but before the con- 
tract had been formally made, the father was killed by ac- 
cident, and through some folly and ambition of her 
mother’s (such seemed to be the Fordyce belief), the poor 
heiress was married to Sir James Winslow, one of the suc- 
cessful intriguers of the days of the later Stewarts, and 
with a family nearly as old, if not older, than herself. Her 
own children died almost at their birth, and she was left a 
young widow. Being meek and gentle her step-sons and 
daughters still ruled over Chantry House. They prevented 
her Hillside relations from iiaving access to her while in a 
languishing state of health, and when she died unexpectedly, 
she was found to have bequeathed all her property to her 
step-son, Philip Winslow, instead of to her blood relations, 
the Fordyces. 

This was certain, but the Fordyce tradition was that she 
had been kept shut up in the mullion chambers, where she 
had often been heard weeping bitterly. One night in the 
winter, when the gentlemen of the family had gone out to 
a Christmas carousal, she had endeavored to escape by the 
steps leading to the garden from the door now bricked up, 
but had been met by them and dragged back with violence, 
of which she died in the course of a few days; and, what 
was very suspicious, she had been entirely attended by her 
step-daughter and old nurse, who never would let her own 
woman come near her. 

The Fordyces had thought of a prosecution, but the 
Winslows had powerful interest at court in those corrupt 
times, and contrived to hush up the matter, as well as to 
win the suit in which the Fordyces attempted to prove that 
there was no right to will the proj)erty away. Bitter enmit}" 
remained between the families; they were always opposed 
in politics, and their animosity was fed by the belief which 
arose that at the anniversaries of her death the poor lady 
haunted the rooms, lamp in hand, wailing and lamenting. 
A duel had been fought on the subject between the heirs of 
the two families, resulting in the death of the young Wins 
low. 

‘‘ And now,^’ cried Ellen Fordyce, the feud is so 
beautifully ended; the doom must be appeased, now that 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 105 

the head of one hostile line has come to the rescue of the 
other, and saved all our lives. 

My suggestion that these would hardly have been de- 
stroyed, even without our interposition, fell very flat, for 
romance must have its swing. Ellen told us how, on the 
news of our kinsman^s death and our inheritance, the an- 
cestral story had been discussed, and her grandfather had 
said he believed there were letters about it in the iron deed- 
box, and how he hoped to be on better terms with the new 
heii;, 

The ghost story had always been hushed up in the fam- 
ily, especially since the duel, and \^e all knew the resem- 
blance of the picture would be scouted by our elders; but 
perhaps this gave us the more pleasure in dwelling upon it, 
while we agreed that poor Margaret ought to be appeased 
by Griffiths’s prowess on behalf of the Fordyces. 

The two young ladies went off to inspect the mullion 
chamber, which they found so crammed with Hillside fur- 
niture that they could scarcely enter, and returned dis- 
appointed, except for having inspected and admired all 
Griffis weapons, especially what Miss Fordyce called the 
sword of her rescue. 

She had been learning German — rather an unusual study 
in those days, and she narrated to us most effectively the 
story of Die Weisse Frau, ’^ working herself up to such a 
pitch that she would have actually volunteered to spend a 
night in the room, to see whether Margaret would hold any 
communication with a descendant, after the example of the 
White Woman and Lady Bertha, if there had been either 
fire or accommodation, and if the only entrance had not 
been through Griff’s private sitting-room. 


CHAPTEE XIX. 

THE WHITE FEATHER. 

The white doe’s milk is not out of his mouth. 

Scott. 

Clarence had come home free from all blots. His sum- 
mer holiday had been prevented by the illness of one of the 
other clerks, whose place, Mr. Castleford wrote, he had so 
well supplied that ere long he would be sure to earn his 
promotion. That kind friend had several times taken him 


106 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


to spend a Sunday in the country, and, as vve afterward had 
reason to think, would have taken more notice of him but 
for the rooted belief of Mr. Frith that it was a case of 
favoritism, and that piety and strictness were assumed to 
throw dust in the eyes of his patron. 

Such distrust had tended to render Clarence more re- 
served than ever, and it was quite by the accident of finding 
him studying one of Mrs. TrimmeFs Manuals that I dis- 
covered that, at the request of his good rector, he had be- 
come a Sunday-school teacher, and was as much interested 
as the enthusiastic girls; but I was immediately forbidden 
to utter a word on the subject, even to Emily, lest she 
should tell any one. 

Such reserve was no doubt an outcome of his natural 
timidity. He had to bear a certain amount of scorn and 
derision among some of his fellow-clerks for the stricter 
habits and observances that could not be concealed, and he 
dreaded any fresh revelation of them, partly because of 
the cruel imputation of hypocrisy, partly because he feared 
the bringing a scandal on religion by his weakness and 
failures. 

Nor did our lady visitors^ ways reassure him, though 
they meant to be kind. They could not help being formal 
and stiff, not as they were with Grift’ and me. The two 
gentlemen were thoroughly friendly and hearty; Parson 
Frank could hardly have helped being so toward any one 
in the same house with himself; and as to little Anne, she 
found in the new-comer a carpenter and upholsterer supe- 
rior even to Martyn; but her candor revealed a great deal 
which I overheard one afternoon, when the two children 
were sitting together on the hearth-rug in the book-room in 
the twilight. 

“ I want to see Mr. Clarence’s white feather,” observed 
Anne. 

“ Griff has a white plume in his Yeomanry helmet,” re- 
plied Martyn; Clarence hasn’t one.” 

“ Oh, I saw Mr. Griffith’s!” she answered; “ but Cousin 
Horace said Mr. Clarence showed the white feather.” 

‘‘ Cousin Horace is an ape!” cried Martyn. 

“I don’t think he is so nice as an ape,” said Anne. 
“ He is more like a monkey. He tries the dolls by court- 
martial, and he shot Arabella with a pea-shooter, and 
broke her eye; only grandpapa made him have it put in 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 107 

again with his own money, and then he said I was a little 
sneak, and if I ever did it again he would shoot me.^^ 

‘‘ Mind you don^t tell Clarence what he said,^'’ said Mar- 
tyn. 

“ Oh, no! I think Mr. Clarence very nice indeed; but 
Horace did tease so about that day when he carried poor 
Amos Bell home. He said Ellen had gone and made friends 
with the worst of all the wicked Winslows, who had shown 
the white feather and disgraced his flag. No; I know you 
are not wicked. And Mr. Griff came all glittering, like 
Richard Coeur de Lion, and saved us all that night. But 
Ellen cried to think what she had done, and mamma said it 
showed what it was to speak to a strange young man; and 
she has never let Ellen and me go out of the grounds by 
ourselves since that day. 

“It is a horrid shame, exclaimed Martyn, “that a 
fellow can^t get into a scrape without its being forever cast 
up to him. 

“ I like him,^^ said Anne. “ He gave Mary Bell a nice 
pair of boots, and he made a new pair of legs for poor old 
Arabella, and she can really sit down! Oh, he is very nice; 
but — in an awful whisper — “ does he tell stories? I mean 
fibs — falsehoods. 

“ Who told you that?'’^ exclaimed Martyn. 

“ Mamma said it. Ellen was telling them something 
about the picture of the white-satin lady, and mamma said, 
‘ Oh, if it is only that young man, no doubt it is a mere 
mystification;^ and papa said, ‘ Poor young fellow, he 
seems very amiable and well disposed;^ and mamma said, 
‘ If he can invent such a story, it shows that Horace was 
right, and he is not to be believed. Then they stopped, 
but I asked Ellen who it was, and she said it was Mr. Clar- 
ence, and it was a sad thing for Emily and all of you to 
have such a brother. 

Martyn began to stammer with indignation, and I thought 
it time to interfere; so I called the little maid, and gravely 
explained the facts, adding that poor Clarence^ s punish- 
ment had been terrible, but that he was doing his best to 
make up for what was past; and that, as to anything he 
might have told, though he might be mistaken, he never 
said anything now but what he believed to be true. She 
raised her brown eyes to mine full of gravity, and said, “ I 
do like him.^^ Moreover, I privately made Mart}^ under- 


108 


CHANTEY HOL'SK. 


stand that if he told her what had been said about the 
white-satin lady, he would never be forgiven; the others 
would be sure to find it out, and it might shorten their 
stay. 

That was a dreadful idea, for the presence of those two 
creatures, to say nothing of their parents, was an unspeak- 
able charm and novelty to us all. We all worshiped the 
elder, and the little one was like a new discovery and toy to 
us, who had never been used to such a presence. She was 
not a commonplace child; but even if she had been, she 
would have been as charming a study as a kitten; and she 
had all the four cf us at her feet, though her mother was 
constantly protesting against our spoiling her, and really 
kept up so much wholesome discipline that the little maid 
never exceeded the bounds of being charming to us. After 
that explanation there was the same sweet wistful gentle- 
ness in her manner toward Clarence as she showed to me; 
while he, who never dreamed of such a child knowing his 
history, was brighter and freer with her than with any one 
else, played with her and Martyn, and could be heaid 
laughing merrily with them. Perhaps her mother and sis- 
ter did not fully like this, but they could not interfere be- 
fore our faces. And Parson Frank was really kind to him; 
took him out walking when going to Hillside, and talked 
to him so as to draw him out; certifying, perhaps, that he 
would do no harm, although, indeed, the family looked on 
dear good Frank as a sort of boy, too kind-hearted and 
genial for his approval to be worth as much as that of the 
more severe. 

These were our only Christmas visitors, for the state of 
the country did not invite Londoners; but we did not want 
them. The suppression of Clarence was the only flaw in a 
singularly happy time; and, after all, I believe I felt the 
pity of it more than he did, who expected nothing, and was 
accustomed to being in the background. 

For instance, one afternoon in the course of one of the 
grave discussions that used to grow up between Miss For- 
dyce, Emily, and me, over subjects trite to the better-in- 
structed younger generation, we got quite out of our shal- 
low depths. I think it was on the meaning of the Com- 
munion of Saints,^"’ for the two girls were both reading in 
preparation for a Confirmation at Bristol, and Mrs. Fordyce 
knew more than we did on these subjects. All the time 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


109 


Clarence had sat in the window, carving a bit of dolFs fur- 
niture, and quite forgotten; but at night he showed me the 
exposition copied from “ Pearson on the Creed, a bit of 
Hooker, and extracts from one or two sermons. I found 
these were notes written out in a blank book, which he had 
had in hand ever since his confirmation — his log-book as he 
called it; but he would not hear of their being mentioned 
even to Emily, and only consented to hunt up the books 
on condition I would not bring him forward as the finder. 
It was of no use to urge that it was a deprivation to us all 
that he should not aid us with his more thorough knowl- 
edge and deeper thought. “ He could not do so,"*^ he said, 
in a quiet decisive manner; “ it was enough for him to 
watch and listen to Miss Fordyce, when she could forget 
his presence. 

She often did forget it in her eagerness. She w^as by 
nature one of the most ardent beings that I ever saw, yet 
with enthusiasm kept in check, by the self-control inculcat- 
ed as a primary duty. It would kindle in those wonderful 
light brown eyes, glow in the clear delicate cheek, quiver in 
the voice even when the words were only half adequate to 
the feeling. She was not what is now called gushing. Oh, 
no! not in the least! She was too reticent and had too 
much dignity for anything of the kind. Emily had always 
been reckoned as our romantic young lady, and teased ac- 
cordingly, but her enthusiasm beside Ellen ^s was 

“ As moonlight is to sunlight, as water is to wine,” 

a mere refiection on the tone of the period, compared with 
a real element in the character. At least so my sister tells 
me, though at the time all the difference I saw was that 
Miss Fordyce had the most originality, and unconsciously 
became the leader. The book-room was given up to us, 
and there in the morning we drew, worked, read, copied 
and practiced music, wrote out extracts, and delivered our 
youthful minds to one another on all imaginable topics 
from slea silk to predestination.^^ 

Religious subjects occupied us more than might have 
been held likely. A spirit of reflection and revival was 
silently working in many a heart. Evangelicalism had 
stirred old-fashioned orthodoxy, and we felt its action. 
The “ Christian Year was Ellen ^s guiding star — as it 
was ours; nay, doubly so in proportion to the ardor of her 


110 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


nature. Certain poems are dearer and more eloquent to 
me still, because the verses recall to me the thrill of her 
sweet tones as she repeated them. We were all very igno- 
rant alike of Church doctrine and history, but talking out 
and comparing our discoveries and impressions was as use- 
ful as it was pleasant to us. 

What the “ Christian Year was in religion to us Scott 
was in history. We read to verify or illustrate him, and 
we had little raving fits over his characters, and jokes 
founded on them. Indeed, Ellen saw life almost through 
that medium; and the siege of Hillside, dispersed by the 
splendid prowess of Griffith, the champion with silver helm 
and flashing sword , was precious to her as a renewal of the 
days of Ivanhoe or Damian de Lacy. 

As may be believed, these quiet mornings were those 
when that true knight was employed in field sports or yeo- 
manry duties, such as the state of the country called for. 
When he was at home, all was fun and merriment and noise 
— walks and rides on fine days, battle-dore and shuttlecock 
on wet ones, music, singing, paper games, giggling and 
making giggle, and sometimes dancing in the hall — Mr. 
Erank Fordyce joining with all liis heart and drollery in 
many of these, like the boy he was. 

I could play quadrilles and country dances, and now and 
then a reel — nobody thought of waltzes — and the three 
couples changed and counterchanged partners. Clarence 
had the sailor^s foot, and did his part when needed; Emily 
generally fell to his share, and their silence and gravity con- 
trasted with the mirth of the other pairs. He knew very 
well he was the pis alter of the party, and only danced when 
Parson Frank was not dragged out, nothing loath, by his 
little daughter. With Miss Fordyce, Clarence never had 
the chance of dancing; she was always claimed by Grifi, or 
pounced upon by Martyn. 

Miss Fordyce she always was to us in those days, and 
those pretty lips scrupulously ‘‘ Mistered and “ Win- 
slowed us. I don’t think she would have been more to 
us, if we had called her Nell, and had been Griff, Bill, and 
Ted to her, or if there had not been all the little formalities 
of avoiding tete-a-tetes and the like. They were essentials 
of propriety then — natural, and never viewed as prud- 
ish. Nor did it detract from the sweet dignity of maiden- 
hood that there was none of the familiarity which breeds 


OHAJ^TliV HOUSE. Ill 

something one would rather not mention in conjunction 
with a lady. 

Altogether there was a sunshine around Miss Fordyce by 
Avhich we all seemed illuminated, even the least favored 
and least demonstrative; we were all her willing slaves, and 
thought her smile and thanks full reward. 

One day, when Griff and Martyii were assisting at the 
turn out of an isolated bam at Hillside, where Frank For- 
dyce declared, all the burned-out rats and mice had taken 
refuge, the young ladies went to cater for house decorations 
for Christmas under Clarence's escort.. Nobody but the 
clerk ever thought of touching the church, where there were 
holes in all the pews to receive the holly boughs. 

The girls came back, telling in eager scared voices how, 
while gathering butcher^s broom in Farmer Hodges's home 
copse, a savage dog had flown out at them, but had been 
kept at bay by Mr. Clarence Winslow with an umbrella, 
while they escaped over the stile. 

Clarence had not come into the drawing-room with 
them, and while my mother, who had a great objection to 
people standing about in out-door garments, sent them up 
to doff their bonnets and furs, I repaired to our room, and 
was horrified to find him on my bed, white and faint. 

“ Bitten?" I cried in dismay. 

“ Yes; but not much. Only Fm such a fool. I turned 
off when I began taking off my boots. No, no — don't! 
Don't call any one. It is nothing!" 

He was springing up to stop me, but was forced to drop 
back, and I made my way to the drawing-room, where my 
mother happened to be alone. She was much alarmed, but 
a glass of wine restored Clarence; and inspection showed 
that the thick trouser and winter stocking had so protected 
him that little blood had been drawn, and there was bruise 
rather than bite in the calf of the leg, where the brute had 
caught him as he was getting over the stile as the rear- 
guard. It was painful, though the faintness was chiefly 
from tension of nerve, for he had kept behind all the way 
home, and no one had guessed at the hurt. My mother 
doctored it tenderly, and he begged that nothing should be 
said about it; he wanted no fuss about such a trifle. My 
mother agreed, with the proud feehng of not enhancing the 
obligations of the Fordyce family; but she absolutely kissed 


113 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


Clarence^s forehead as she bade him lie quiet till dinner- 
time. 

We kept silence at table while the girls described the 
horrors of the monster. “ A tawny creature, with a hid- 
eous black muzzle/’’ said Emily. ‘‘Like a bad dream/^ 
said Miss Fordyce. I’he two fathers expressed their inten- 
tion of remonstrating with the farmer, and Griff declared 
that it would be lucky if he did not shoot it. Miss Fordyce 
generously took its part, saying the poor dog was doing its 
duty, and Griff ejaculated, “ If I had been there!” 

“ It would not have dared to show its teeth, eh?” said 
my father, when there was a good deal of banter. 

My father, howerer, came at night with mamma to in- 
spect the hurt and ask details, and he ended with, “ Well 
done, Clarence, boy; I am gratified to see you are acquiring 
presence of mind, and can act like a man.-’^ 

Clarence smiled when they were gone, saying, “ That 
would have been an insult to any one else. ” 

Emily perceived that he had not come off unscathed, and 
was much aggrieved at being bound to silence. “ W^ell,” 
she broke out, “ if the dog goes mad, and Clarence has the 
hydrophobia, I suppose I may tell.^^ 

“ In that pleasing contingency,^^ said Clarence smiling. 
“ Don’t you see, Emily, it is the worst compliment you can 
pay me not to treat tliis as a matter of course?” Still, he 
was the happier for not having failed. Whatever strength- 
ened his self-respect and gave him trust in himself was a 
stepping-stone. 

As to rivalry or competition with Griff, the idea seem- 
ingly never crossed his mind, and envy or jealousy was 
equally aloof from it. One subject of thankfulness runs 
through these recollections — namely, that nothing broke 
the tie of strong affection between us three brothers. 
Griffith might figure as the “ vary parfite knight,” the St. 
George of the piece, glittering in the halo shed round him 
by the bright eyes of the rescued damsel; while Clarence 
might drag himself along as the poor recreant to be con- 
temned and tolerated, and he would accept the position 
meekly as only as his desert, without a thought of bitter- 
ness. Indeed, he himself seemed to have imbibed Nurse 
Gooch’s original opinion, that his genuine love for sacred 
things was a sort of impertinence and pretension in such as 
he— a kind of hypocrisy even when they were the reaUtiea 


CHAK^TIIY irOUSE. 


113 


and helps to which he clung with all his heart. Still, this 
depression was only shown by reserve, and troubled no one' 
save myself, who knew him hest, guessed what was lost by 
his silence, and burned in spirit at seeing him merely en- 
dured as one unworthy. 

In one of our yarieties of Waverley discussions the crys- 
tal hardness and inexperienced intolerance of youth made 
Miss Fordyce declare that had she been Edith Plantagenet, 
she would never, never have forgiven Sir Kenneth. “ How 
could she, when he had forsaken the king^s banner? Un- 
pardonable!^^ 

Then came a sudden, awfid silence, as she recollected 
her audience, and blushed crimson with the misery of per- 
ceiving where her random shaft had struck, nor did either 
of us know what to say; but to our surprise it was Clarence 
who first spoke to relieve the desperate embarrassment. 
“ Is forgiven quite the right word, when the offense was 
not personal? I know that such things can neither be re- 
paired nor overlooked, and I think that is what Miss For- 
dyce meant. 

“ Oh, Mr. Winslow,^ ^ she exclaimed, “ I am very sorry 
— I donT think I quite meant — and then, as her eves for 
one moment fell on his subdued face, she added, ‘^ Ko, I 
said what I ought not. If there is sorrow — her voice 
trembled — ‘‘ and pardon above, no one below has any right 
to say unpardonable. 

Clarence bowed his head, and his lips framed, but he did 
not utter, “ Thank you.-’^ Emily nervously began reading 
aloud the page before her, full of the jinghng recurring 
rhymes about Sir Thomas of Kent; but I saw Ellen sur- 
reptitiously wipe away a tear, and from that time she was 
more kind and friendly with Clarence. 


CHAPTEE XX. 

VE]Sri, YIDI, VICI. 

None but the brave, 

None but the brave, 

None but the brave deserve the fair. 

Song. 

Chkistmas trees were not yet heard of beyond the father- 
land, and both the mothers held that Christmas parties 


114 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


were not good for little children, since Mrs. Winslow^s 
strong common sense had arrived at the same conclusion as 
Mrs. Fordyce had derived from Hannah More and Kichard 
Lovell Edgeworth. Besides, rick-burning and mobs were 
far too recent for our neighbors to venture out at night. 

But as we were all resolved that little Anne should have 
a memorable Christmas at Chantry House, we begged an 
innocent, though iced cake, from the cook, painted a set 
of characters ourselves, including all the dolls, and bespoke 
the presence of Frank Fordyce at a feast in the outer mull- 
ion room — Griffis apartment, of course. The locality was 
chosen as allowing more opportunity for high jinks than the 
book-room, and also because the swords and pistols in 
trophy over the mantel-piece had a great fascination for the 
two sisters, and to ‘‘ drink tea with Mr. Griffith " was 
always known to be a great ambition of the little queen of 
the festival. As to the mullion chamber legends, they had 
nearly gone out. of our heads, though Clarence did once ob- 
serve, “ You remember, it will be the 26th of December;^ ^ 
but we did not think this worthy of consideration, especially 
as Anne^s entertainment, at its latest, could not last beyond 
nine oYlock; and the ghostly performances — now entirely 
laid to the account of the departed stable-boy — never began 
before eleven. 

Hor did anything interfere with our merriment. The 
fun of fifty years ago must be intrinsically exquisite to bear 
being handed down to another generation, so I will attempt 
no repetition,, though some of those Twelfth-day characters 
still remain pasted into my diary. We anticipated Twelfth- 
day because our guests meant to go to visit some other 
friends before the New-year, and we knew Anne would 
have no chance there of fulfilling her great ambition of 
drawing foi king and queen. These home-made characters 
were really charming. Mrs. Fordyce had done several of 
them, and she drew beautifully. A little manipulation 
contrived that the exquisite Oberon and Titania should fall 
to Martyn and Anne, for whom crowns and robes had been 
prepared, worn by her majesty with complacent dignity, 
but barely tolerated by him ! The others took their chance. 
Parson Frank was Tom Thumb, and convulsed us all the 
evening by acting as if no bigger than that worthy, keep- 
ing us so merry that even Clarence laughed as I had never 
seen him laugh before. 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


115 


Cock Robin and Jenny Wren— the best drawn of all — fell 
to Griff and Miss Fordyce. There was a suspicion of a hint 
of real carnation on her cheek, as, on his low, highly de- 
lighted bow, she held up her impromptu fan of folded 
paper; and drollery about currant wine and hopping upon 
twigs went on more or less all the time, while somehow or 
other the beauteous glow on her cheeks went on deepening, 
so that I never saw her look so pretty as when thus playing 
at Jenny Wren^s coyness, though neither she nor Griff had 
passed the bounds of her gracious precise discretion. 

The joyous evening ended at last. With the stroke of 
nine, Jenny Wren bore away Queen Titania to put her to 
bed, for the servants were having an entertainment of their 
own down-stairs for all the out-door retainers, etc. Oberon 
departed, after an interval sufficient to prove his own dig- 
nity and advanced age. Emily went down to report the 
success of the evening to the elders in the drawing-room, 
but we lingered while Frank Fordyce . was telling good 
stories of Oxford life, and Griff capping them with more 
recent ones. 

We too broke up — I donT remember how; but Clarence 
was to help me down the stairs, and Mr. Fordyce, frowning 
with anxiety at the process, was offering assistance, while Tve 
had much rather he had gone out of the way; when sud- 
denly, in the gallery round the hall giving access to the bed- 
rooms, there dawned upon us the startled but scarcely dis- 
pleased figure of Jenny Wren in her white dress, not 
turning aside that blushing face, while Cock Robin was 
clasping her hand and pressing it to his lips. The tap of 
my crutches warned them. She fiew back within her door 
and shut it; Griff strode rapidly on, caught hold of her fa- 
therms hand, exclaiming, ‘‘ Sir, sir, I must speak to you!’^ 
and dragged him back into the mullion room, leaving 
Clarence and me to convey ourselves down-stairs as best we 
might. 

‘‘ Our sister, our sweet sister 

We were immensely excited. All the three of us were so 
far in love with Ellen Fordyce that her presence was an 
enchantment to us, and at any rate none of us ever saw the 
woman we could compare to her; and as we both felt our- 
selves disqualified in different ways from any nearer ap- 
proach, we were content to bask in the reflected rays of our 
brotherms happiness. 


116 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


Not that he had gone that length as yet, as we knew be- 
fore the night was over, when he came down to us. Even 
with the d^ear maiden herself, he had only made sure that 
she was not averse, and that merely by her eyes and lips; 
and he had extracted nothing from her father but that 
they were both very young, a great deal too young, and had 
no business to think of such things yet. It must be talked 
over, etc., etc. 

But just then. Griff told us, Erank Eordyce jumped up 
and turned round with the sudden exclamation, ‘‘ Ellen 
looking toward the door behind him with blank astonish- 
ment, as he found it had neither been opened nor shut. 
He thought his daughter had recollected something left be- 
hind, and coming in search of it, had retreated precipitate- 
ly. He had seen her, he said, in the mirror opposite. 
Griff told him there was no mirror, and had to carry a 
candle across to convince him that he had only been look- 
ing at the door into the inner room, which though of shin- 
ing dark oak, could hardly have made a reflection as vivid 
as he declared that his had been. Indeed, he ascertamed 
that Ellen had never left her own room at all. ‘‘ It must 
have been thinking about the dear child, he said. ‘‘ And 
after all, it was not quite like her— somehow — she was 
paler, and had something over her head.'’^ 

AVe had no doubt who it was. Griff had not seen her, 
blithe was certain that there had been none of the moaning 
nor crying, “ In fact, she has come to give her consent, 
he said with earnest in his mocking tone. 

“ Yes,'’^ said Clarence gravely, and with glistening eyes. 
‘‘ You are happy. Griff. It is given to you to right the 
wrong, and quiet that poor spirit!” 

‘ ‘ Happy ! The happiest fellow in the world, ^ ^ said Griff, 
“ even without that latter clause — ^if only madame and the 
old man will have as much sense as she has!^^ 

The next day was a thoroughly uncomfortable one. Griff 
was not half so near his goal as he had hoped last night 
when with kindly Parson Frank. 

The commotion was as if a thunder-bolt had descended 
among the elders. What they had been thinking of, I can 
not tell, not to have perceived how matters were tending; 
but their minds were full of the Reform Bill and the state 
of the country, and, besides, we were all looked on still as 
mere children. Indeed, Griff was scarcely one-and-twenty. 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


117 


and Ellen wanted a month of seventeen; and the crisis had 
really been a sudden impulse, as he said, “ She looked so 
sweet and lovely, he could not help it.^^ 

The first effect was a serious lecture upon maidenliness 
and propriety to poor Ellen from her mother, who was sure 
that she must have transgressed the bounds of discretion, 
or such ill-bred presumption would have been spared her, 
and bitterly regretted the having trusted her to take care 
of herself. There were sufficient grains of truth in this to 
make the poor girl cry herself out of all condition for ap- 
pearing at breakfast or luncheon, and Emily ^s report of her 
despair made us much more angry with Mrs. Fordyce than 
was perhaps quite due to that good lady. 

My parents were at first inclined to take the same line, 
and be vexed with Griff for an act of impertinence toward 
a guest. He had a great deal of difficulty in inducing the 
elders to believe him in earnest, or treat him as a man 
capable of knowing his own mind; and even thus they felt 
as if his addresses to Miss Fordyce were, under present cir- 
cumstances, taking almost an unfair advantage of the other 
family — at which our youthful spirits felt indignant. 

Yet, after all, such a match was as obvious and suitable 
as if it had been a family compact, and the only objection 
was the youth of the parties. Mrs. Fordyce would fain 
have beheved her daughter's heart to be not yet awake, and 
was grieved to find childhood over, and the hero of romance 
become the lover; and she was anxious that full time should 
be given to perceive whether her daughter's feelings were 
only the result of the dazzling aureole which gratitude and 
excited fancy had cast around the fine, handsome, winning 
youth. Her husband, however, who had himself married 
very young, and was greatly taken with Griff, besides being 
always tender-hearted, did not enter into her scruples; but, 
as we had already found out, the grand-looking and clever 
man of thirty-eight was, chiefly from his impulsiveness and 
good-nature, treated as the boy of the familjr. His old 
father, too, was greatly pleased with Griff’s spirit, affection 
and purpose, as well as with my father’s conduct in the 
matter; and so, after a succession of private interviews, 
very tantalizing to us poor outsiders, it was conceded that 
though an engagement for the present was preposterous, it 
might possibly be permitted when Ellen was eighteen, if 
Griff had completed his university life with full credit. 


118 


CHAKTKY HOUSE. 


He was fervently grateful to have such an object set before 
him, and my father was warmly thankful for the stimulus. 

That last evening was very odd and constrained. We 
could not help looking on the lovers as new specimens over 
which some strange transformation had passed, though for 
the present it had stiffened them in public into the strictest 
good behavior. They would have been awkward it it had ' 
been possible to either of them, and, save for a certain look 
in their eyes, comported themselves as perfect strangers. 

The three elder gentlemen held discussions in the din- 
ing-room, but we were not trusted in our play-ground 
adjoining. Mrs. Fordyce nailed Griff down to an inter- 
minable game at chess, and my mother kept the two girls 
playing duets, while Clarence turned over the leaves; and 
I read over The Lady of the Lake,’’^ a study which I 
always felt, and 'still feel, as an act of homage to Ellen 
Fordyce, though there was not much in common between 
her and the Maid of Douglas. Indeed, it was a joke of her 
father^s to tease her by criticising the famous passage about 
the tears that old Douglas shed over his duteous daughter '’s 
head — ‘ ^ What in the world should the man go whining and 
crving for? He had much better have laughed with 
her.” 

Little did the elders know what was going on in the next 
room, where there was a grand courtship among the dolls; 
the hero being a small-jointed Dutch one in Swiss costume, 
about an eighth part of the size of the resuscitated Celestina 
Mary, but the only available male character in doll-land! 
Anne was supposed to be completely ignorant of what passed 
above her head; and her mother would have been aghast 
had she heard the remarkable discoveries and speculations 
that she and Martyn communicated to one another. 


CHAPTEE XXL 

' THE OUTSIDE OF THE COUETSHIP. 

Or framing, as fair excuse, 

The book, the pencil, or the muse; 

Something to give, to sing, to say. 

Some modern tale, some ancient lay. 

Scott. 

It seems to me on looking back that I have hardly done 
justice to Mrs. Fordyce, and certainly we — as Griffith •’s 


CHANTRy HOUSE. 


119 


eager partisans — often regarded her in the light of an enemy 
and opponent; but after this lapse of time, I can see that 
she was no more than a prudent mother, unwilling to see 
her fair young daughter suddenly launched into woman- 
hood, and involved in an attachment to a young and un- 
tried man. 

The part of a drag is an invidious one; and this must 
have been her part through most of her hfe. The For- 
dyces, father and son, were of good family, gentlemen to 
their very backbones, and thoroughly good, religious men; 
but she came of a more aristocratic strain, had been in 
London society, and brought with her a high-bred air 
which, implanted on the Fordyce good looks, made her 
daughter .especially fascinating. But that air did not 
recommend Mrs. Fordyce to all her neighbors, any more 
than did those stronger, stricter, more thorough-going 
notions of religious obligation which had led her husband 
to make the very real and painful sacrifice of his sporting 
tastes, and attend to the parish in a manner only too rare 
in those days. She was a very well-informed and highly 
accomplished woman, and had made her daughter the 
same, keeping her children up in a somewhat exclusive 
style, away from all gossip or undesirable intimacies, as 
recommended by Miss Edgeworth and other more religious 
authorities, and which gave great offense in houses where 
there were girls of the same age. No one, however, could 
look at Ellen, and doubt of the success of the system, or of 
the young girFs entire content and perfect affection for her 
mother, though her father was her beloved playfellow — yet 
always with respect. She never took liberties with him, 
nor called him rap or any other ridiculous name inconsist- 
ent with the Fifth Commandment, though she certainly 
was more entirely at ease with him than ever we had been 
with our elderly father. When once Mrs. Fordyce found 
on what terms we were to be, she accepted them frankly 
and fully. Already Emily had been the first girl, not a 
relation, whose friendship she had fostered with Ellen; and 
she had also become thoroughly affectionate and at home 
with my mother, who suited her perfectly on the conscien- 
tious, and likewise on the prudent and sensible, side of her 
nature. 

To me she was always kindness itself, so kind that I 
never felt, as I did on so many occasions, that, she was very 


120 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


pitiful and attentive to the deformed youth; but that she 
really enjoyed my companionship, and I could help her in 
her pursuits. I have a whole packet of charming notes 
of hers about books, botany, drawings, little bits of anti- 
quarianism, written with an arch grace and finish of ex- 
pression peculiarly her own, and in a very pointed hand, 
yet too definite to be illegible. I owe her more than I can 
say for the windows of wholesale hope and ambition she 
opened to me, giving a fresh motive and zest even to such a 
life as mine. 1 can hardly tell which was the most delight- 
ful companion, she or her husband. In spite of ill health, 
she knew every plant, and every bit of fair scenery in the 
neighborhood, and had fresh, amusing criticisms to utter 
on each new hook; while he, not neglecting the books, was 
equally well acquainted with all beasts and birds, and shed 
his kindly light over everything he approached. He was 
never melancholy about anything but politics,- and even 
there it was an immense consolation to him to have the 
owner of Chantry House stanch on the same side, instead 
of in chronic opposition. 

The family party moved to a tall house at Bath,, but 
there still was close intercourse, for the younger clergyman 
rode over every week for the Sunday duty, and almost 
always dined and slept at Chantry House. He acted as 
bearer of long letters, which, in spite of a reticulation of 
crossings, were too expensive by post for young ladies^ 
pocket-money, often exceeding the regular quarto sheet. 
It was a favorite joke to ask Emily what Ellen reported 
about Bath fashions, and to see her look of scorn. For they 
were a curious mixture, those girlish letters, of village in- 
terests, discussion of books, and thoughts beyond their age; 
Tommy Toogood and Prometheus; or Du Guesclin in the 
closest juxtaposition with reports of progress in Abercrom- 
bie on the “ Intellectual Powers.^'’ It was the desire of 
Ellen to prove herself not unsettled but improved by love, 
and to become worthy of her ideal Griffith, never guessing 
that he would have been equally content with her if she had 
been as frivolous as the idlest girl who lingered amid the 
waning glories of Bath. 

We all made them a visit there when Martyn was taken 
to a preparatory school in the place. Mrs. Fordyce took 
me out for drives op the beaqtiful hills; and Emily and I 
had a very delightful time, undisturbed by the engrossing 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


121 


claims of love-making. Very good, too, were our friends, 
after our departure, in letting Martyn spend Sundays and 
holidays with them, play with Anne as before, say his 
catechism with her to Mrs. Fordyce, and share her little 
Sunday lessons, which had, he has since told, a force and 
attractiveness he had never known before, and really did 
much, young as he was, in preparing the way toward the 
fulfillment of my father’s design for him. 

When the rectory was ready, and the family returned, it 
was high summer, and there were constant meetings be- 
tween the households. !No doubt there was the usual 
amount of trivial disappointments and annoyances, but the 
whole season seems to me to have been bathed in sunlight. 
The Reform Bill agitations and the London mobs of which 
Clarence wrote to us were like waves surging beyond an isle 
of peace. Clarence had some unpleasant walks from the 
office. Once or twice the shutters had to be put up at Frith 
and Castleford’s to prevent the windows from being broken; 
and once Clarence actually saw our nation’s hero, “ the 
duke,” riding quietly and slowly through a yelling, furious 
mob, who seemed withheld from falling on him by the per- 
fect impassiveness of the eagle face and spare figure. 
Moreover a pretty little boy, on his pony, suddenly pushed 
forward and rode by the duke’s side, as if proud and reso- 
lute to share his peril. 

“ If Griffith had been there!” said Ellen and Emily, 
though tliey did not exactly know what they expected him 
to have done. 

The chief storms that drifted across our sky were caused 
by Mrs. Fordyce’s resolution that Griffith should enjoy none 
of the privileges of an accepted suitor before the engage- 
ment was an actual fact. Ellen was obedient and conscien- 
tious; and would neither transgress nor endure to have her 
mother railed at by Griff’s hasty tongue, and tliis affronted 
him, and led to little breezes. 

When people overstay their usual time, tempers are apt 
to get rather difficult. Griffith had kept all his terms at 
Oxford, and was not to return thither after the long vaca- 
tion, but was to read with a tutor before taking his degree. 
Moreover bills began to come from Oxford, not very serious, 
but vexing my father and raising annoyances and frets, for 
Griff resented their being complained of, and thought liim- 


122 


CHAJTTRY HOUSE. 


self ill-used, going off to see his own friends whenever he 
was put out. 

One morning at breakfast, late in October, he announced 
that Lady Peacock was in lodgings at Clifton, and asked 
my mother to call on her. But mamma said it was too far 
for the horse — she visited no one at that distance, and had 
never thought much of Selina Clarkson before or after her 
marriage. 

“ But now that she is a widow, it would be such a kind- 
ness,^’ pleaded Griff. 

“ Depend upon it, a gay young widow needs no kindness 
from me, and had better not have it from you,^-* said my 
mother, getting up from behind her urn and walking off, 
followed by my father. 

Griff drummed on the table. “I wonder what good 
ladies of a certain age do with their charity, he said. 

And while we were still crying out to him, Ellen Fordyce 
and her father appeared, like mirth bidding good-morrow, 
at the window. All was well for the time, but Griff wanted 
Ellen to set out alone with him, and take their leisurely 
way through the wood-path, and she insisted on waiting for 
her father, who had got into an endless discussion with 
mine on the Reform Bill, thrown out in the last session. 
Griff tried to wile her on with him, but, though she con- 
sented to wander about the lawn before the windows with 
him, she always resolutely turned at the great beech-tree. 
Emily and I watched them from the window, at first 
amused, then vexed, as we could see, by his gestures, that 
he was getting out of temper, and her straw bonnet 
drooped at one moment, and was raised the next in eager 
remonstrance or defense. At last he flung angrily away 
from her, and went off to the stables, leaving her leaning 
against the gate in tears. Emily, in an access of indignant 
sympathy, rushed out to her, and they vanished together 
into the summer-house, until her fatlier called her, and they 
went home together. 

Emily told me that Ellen had struggled hard to keep 
herself from crying enough to show traces of tears which 
her father could, observe, and that she had excused Griff 
with all her might on the plea of her own “ tiresomeness. 

We were all the more angry with him for his selfishness 
and want of consideration, for Ellen, in her torrent of 
grief, had even disclosed that he had said she did not care 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


123 


for him — no one really in love ever scrupled about a moth- 
er's nonsense, etc., etc. 

We were resolved, like two sages, to give him a piece of 
our minds, and convince him that such dutifulness was the 
pledge of future happiness, and that it was absolute cruelty 
to the rare creature he had won, to try to draw her in a 
direction contrary to her conscience. 

' However, we saw him no more that day; and only learned 

’ that he had' left a message at the stables that dinner was 
not to be kept waiting for him. Such a> message from 
Clarence would have caused a great commotion; but it was 
quite natural and a matter of course from him in the eyes 
of the elders, who knew nothing of his parting with Ellen. 
However, there was annoyance enough, when bed-time 
came, family prayers were over, and still there was no sign 
of him. My father sat up till one o^ clock, to let him in, 
then gave it up, and I heard his step heavily mounting the 
stairs. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

BRISTOL DIAMONDS. 

Stafford. And you that are the King’s friends, follow me. 

Cade. And you that love the Commons, follow me; 

We will not leave one lord, one gentleman. 

Spare none but such as go in clouted shoon. 

Act I. Jlenry VI. 

The next day was Sunday, and no Griff appeared in the 
morning. Vexation, perhaps, prevented us from attend- 
ing as much as we otherwise might have done to Mr. Hen- 
derson when he told us that there were rumors of a serious 
disturbance at Bristol; until Emily recollected that Griff 
had been talking for some days past of riding over to see 
his friend in the cavalry regiment there stationed, and we 
all agreed that it was most likely that he was there; and 
our wrath began to soften in the belief that he might have 
been detained to give his aid in the cause of order, though 
his single arm could not be expected to effect as much as 
at Hillside. 

Long after dark we heard a horse ^s feet, and in another 
minute Griff, singed, splashed, and battered, had hurried 
into the room — “ It has begun,” he said. “ The revolu- 
tion! I have brought her — Lady Peacock. She was at 


124 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


Clifton, dreadfully alarmed. She is almost at the door 
now, in her carriage. 1^11 just take the pony, and ride 
over to tell Eastwood in case he will call out the Yeomanry. 

The wheels were to be heard, and everybody hastened 
out to receive Lady Peacock, who was there with her maid, 
full of gratitude. I heard her broken sentences as she came 
across the hall, about dreadful scenes — frightful mob — she 
knev/ not what would have become of her but for Griffith 
—the place was in flames when they left it — the mihtary 
would not act^ — Griffith had assured her that Mr. and Mrs. 
Winslow would be so kind — as long as any place was a refuge. 

We really did believe we were at the outbreak of a revo- 
lution or civil war, and, all httle frets forgotten, listen ap- 
palled to the tidings; how the appearance of Sir Charles 
Wetherall, the Eecorder of Bristol, a strong opponent to 
the Reform Bill, seemed to have inspired the mob with 
fury. Griff and his friend the dragoon, while walking in 
Broad Street, were astonished by a violent rush of riotous 
men and boys, hooting and throwing stones as the record- 
er's carriage tried to make its way to the Guildhall. In 
the midst a piteous voice exclaimed — ‘‘ Oh, Griffith! Mr. 
Griffith Winslow! Is it you?^^ and Lady Peacock was seen 
retreating upon the stone steps of a house either empty, or 
where the inhabitants were too much alarmed to open the 
doors. She was terribly frightened, and the two gentlemen 
stood in front of her till the tumultuary procession had 
passed by. She was staying in lodgings at Clifton, and had 
driven in to Bristol to shop, when she thus found herself 
entangled in the mdb. They then escorted her to the place 
where she was to meet her carriage, and found it for her 
with some difficulty. Then, while the officer returned to 
his quarters. Griff accompanied her far enough on the way 
to Clifton to see that everything was quiet before her, and 
then returned to seek out his friend. The court at the 
Guildhall had had to be adjourned, but the rioters were 
hunting Sir Charles to the Mansion-House. Griff was met 
by one of the Town Council, a tradesman with whom we 
dealt who, having perhaps heard of his prowess at Hillside, 
entreated him to remain, offering him a bed, and saying 
that all friends of order were needed in such a crisis as this. 
Griff wrote a note to let us know what had become of him, 
but everything was disorganized, and we did not get it till 
two days afterward. 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


125 


In the evening the mob became more violent, and in the 
midst of dinner a summons came for Grilles host to attend 
the mayor in endeavoring to disperse it. Getting into the 
Mansion-House by private back ways, they were able to 
loin the mayor when he came out, amid a shower of brick- 
bats, sticks, and stones, and read the Riot Act three times 
over, after warning them of the consequences of persisting 
in their defiance. 

“ But they were far past caring for that,’^ said Griff'. 
“ An iron rail from the square was thrown in the midst of 
it, and if I had not caught it there would have been an end 
of his worship. 

The constables, with such help as Griff and a few others 
could give them, defended the front of the Mansion-House, 
while the recorder, for whom they savagely roared, made 
his escape by the roof to another house. A barricade was 
made with beds, tables, and chairs, behind which the de- 
fenders sheltered themselves, while volleys of stones smashed 
in the windows, and straw was thrown after them. But at 
last the tramp of horses^ feet was heard, and the dragoons 
came up. 

“ We thought all over then, said Griff; ‘‘but Colonel 
Brereton would not have a blow struck, far less a shot 
fired! He would have it that it was a good-humored mob! 
I heard him ! When one of his own men was brought up 
badly hurt with a brick-bat, I heard Ludlow, the town-clerk, 
ask him what he thought of their good-humor, and he had 
nothing to say but that it was an accident! And the rogues 
knew it! He took care they should; he walked about 
among them and shook hands with them !’ ^ 

Griff waited at the Mansion-House all night, and helped 
to board up the smashed windows; but at daylight Colonel 
Brereton came and insisted on withdrawing the picket on 
guard — ^not, however, sending a relief for them, on the 
plea that they only collected a crowd. The instant they 
were withdrawn, down came the mob in fresh force, so des- 
perate that all the defenses were torn down, and they 
swarmed in so that there was nothing for it but to escape 
over the roofs. 

Griffith was sent to rouse the inhabitants of College Green 
and St. Augustine^’s Back to come in the king’s name to 
assist the magistrates, and he had many good stories of the 
various responses he met with. But the rioters, inflamed 


126 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


by the wine they had found in sacking the Mansion-House, 
and encouraged by the passiveness of the troops, had be- 
come entirely masters of the situation. And Colonel Brere-. 
ton seems to have imagined that the presence of the sol- 
diers acted as an irritation; for in this crisis he actually sent 
them out of the city to Keynsham, then came and informed 
the mob, who cheered him, as well they might. 

In the night, the recorder had left the city, and notices 
were posted to that effect; also that the Riot Act had been 
read, and any further disturbance would be capital felony. 
This escape of their victim only had the effect of directing 
the rage of the populace against Bishop Grey, who had 
likewise opposed the Reform Bill. 

Messages had been sent to advise the bishop, who was to 
preach that day at the cathedral, to stay away and sanction 
the omission of the service; but his answer to one of his 
clergy was — “ These are times in which it is necessary not 
to shrink from danger! Our duty is to be at our post. 
And he also said, ‘‘ Where can I die better than in my own 
cathedral?” 

Since the bells were ringing, and it was understood that 
the bishop was actually going to dare the peril. Griff and 
others of the defenders decided that it was better to attend 
the service and fill up the nave so as to hinder outrage. He 
said it was a most strange and wonderful service. Chants 
and psalms and Lessons and prayers going on their course 
as usual, but every now and then in the pauses of the organ, 
a howl or yell of the voice of the multitude would break on 
the ear through the thick walls. Griff listened and hoped 
for a volley of musketry. He was not tender-hearted ! But 
none came, and by the time the service was over, the mob 
had been greatly re-enforced and had broken into the pris- 
ons, set them on fire, and released the prisoners. They 
were mustering on College Green for an attack on the pal- 
ace. Griff aided in guarding the entrance to the cloisters 
till the bishop and his family had had time to drive away to 
Almondsbury, four miles off, and then the rush became so 
strong that they had to give way. There was another great 
struggle at the door of the palace, but it was forced open 
with a crow-bar, while shouts rang out, ‘‘ Ko king and no 
bishops!” A fire was made in the dining-room with chairs 
and tables, and live coals were put into the beds, while the 
plunder went on. 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


127 


Griff meantime had made his way to the party headed by 
the magistrates, and accompanied by the dragoons, and 
the mob began to flee; but Colonel Brereton had given 
strict orders that the soldiers should not fire, and the plun- 
derers rallied, made a fire in the Chapter House, and burned 
the whole of the library, shouting with the maddest tri- 
unmh. 

They next attacked the cathedral, intending to burn that 
likewise, but two brave gentlemen, Mr. Ralph and Mr. 
Linne, succeeded in saving this last outrage, at the head of 
the better affected. 

Griff had fought hard. He was all over bruises which 
he really had never felt at the time, scarcely even now, 
though one side of his face was turning purple, and his 
clothes were singed. In a sort of council held at the re- 
pulse of the attack on the cathedral, it 'had been decided 
that the best thing he could do would be to give notice to 
Sir George Eastwood, in order that the Yeomanry might be 
called out, since the troops were so strangely prevented 
from acting. As he rode through Clifton, he had halted at 
Lady Peacock '’s, and found her in extreme alarm. In- 
deed, no one could guess what the temper of the mob might 
be the next day, or whether they might not fall upon pri- 
vate houses. The Mansion-House, the prisons, the palace 
were all burning and were an astounding sight, which ter- 
rified her exceedingly, and she was sending out right and 
left to endeavor to get horses to take her away. In common 
humanity, and for old acquaintance’ sake, it was impossible 
not to help her, and Griff had delayed to offer any amount 
of reward in her name for post-horses, which he had at 
last secured. Her own man-servant, whom she had sent in 
quest of some, had never returned, and she had to set off 
without him. Griff acting as outrider; but after the first 
there was no more difficulty about horses, and she had been 
able to change them at the next stage. 

We all thought the days of civil war were really begun, 
as the heads of this account were hastily gathered; but 
there was not much said, only Mr. Frank Fordyce laid his 
hand on Griff’s shoulder and said, ‘‘ Well done, my boy; 
but you have had enough for to-day. If you’ll lend me a 
horse, Winslow, I’ll ride over to Eastwood. That’s work 
for the clergy in these times, eh? Griffith should rest. He' 
may be wanted to-morrow. Only is there any one to take 


138 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


a note home for me, to say where I^m gone?’^ and then he 
added with that sweet smile of his, ‘‘ Some one will be 
more the true knight than ever, eh, you Griffith, you — 

Griffith colored a little, and Lady Peacock ^s eyes looked 
interrogative. When the horse was announced. Griff fol- 
lowed Mr. Fordyce into the hall, and came back announc- 
ing that, unless summoned elsewhere, he should go to 
breakfast at Hillside, and so hear what was decided on. He 
longed to be back at the scene of action, but was so tired 
out that he could not dispense with another night^s rest; 
though he took all precautions for being called up, in case 
of need. 

However, nothing came, and he rode to the rectory in 
Yeomanry equipment. Nor could any one doubt that in 
the ecstasy of meeting such a hero, all the little misunder- 
standing and grief of the night before was forgotten? Ellen 
looked as if she trod on air, when she came down with her 
father to report that Griffith had gone, according to the 
orders sent, to join the rest of the Yeomanry, who were to 
advance upon Bristol. They had seen, and tried to tmui 
back, some of the villagers who were starting with blud- 
geons to share in the spoil, and who looked sullen, as if 
they were determined not to miss their share. 

I do not think we were very much alarmed for Griffis 
safety or for our own, not even the ladies\ My mother 
had the lion-heart of her naval ancestors, and Ellen was in 
a state of exaltation. Would that I could put her before 
other eyes, as she stood with hands clasped and glowing 
cheek. 

“ Oh! — think! — think of having one among us who is 
as real and true knight as ever watched his armor — 

“ ‘ For king, for church, for lady fight!” 

It has all come gloriously true!” 

“ Should not you like to bind on his spurs?” I asked 
somewhat mischievously; but she was serious as she said, 
“ I am sure he has won them. ” All the rest of the For- 
dyces came down afterward, too anxious to stay at home. 
Our elders felt the matter more gravely, thinking of what 
civil war might mean to us all, and what an awful thing it 
was for Englishmen to be enrolled against each other. 
Nottingham Castle had just been burned, and things looked 
only too like revolution, especially considering the inaction 


CHAXTRT HOUSE. 


129 


of the dragoons. After Griff had left Bristol, there had 
been some terrible scenes at the Custom House, where the 
ringleaders — unhappy men! — were caught in a trap of their 
own and perished miserably. 

However, by the morning, the order sent from Lord Hill, 
the arrival of Major Beckwith from Gloucester, and the 
proceedings of the good-humored mob hiid put an end to 
poor Brereton^s hesitations; a determined front had been 
shown; the mob had been fairly broken up; troops from 
all quarters poured into the city, and by dinner-time Griff 
came back with the news that all was quiet and there was 
nothing more to fear. Ellen and Emily both flew out to 
meet him at the first sound of the horse^s feet, and they all 
came into the drawing-room together — each young lady 
having hold of one of his hands — and Ellen^s face in such 
a glow, that I rather suspect that he had snatched a reward 
which certainly would not have been granted save in such 
a moment of uplifted feeling, and when she was thankful 
to her hero for forgetting how angry he had been with her 
two days before. 

Minor matters were forgotten in the details of his tid- 
ings, as he stood before the fire, shining in his silver lace, 
and relating the tragedy and the comedy of the scene. 

It was curious, as the evening passed on, to see how 
Ellen and Lady Peacock regarded each other now that the 
tension of suspense was over. To Ellen, the guest was 
primarily a distressed and widowed daxne, dehvered by 
Griff, to whom she, as his lady love, was bound to be gra- 
cious and kind ; nor had they seen much of one another, 
the elder ladies sitting in the drawing-room, and we in our 
own regions; but we were all together at dinner and after- 
ward, and Lady Peacock, who had been in a very limp, 
nervous, and terrified state all day, began to be the Selina 
Clarkson we remembered, and “ more too.^^ She was still 
in mourning, but she came down to dinner in gray satin 
sheen, and with her hair in a most astonishing erection of 
bows and bands, on the very crown of her head, raising her 
height at least four inches. Emily assures me that it was 
the mode in use, and that she and Ellen wore their hair in 
the same style, appeahng to portraits to prove it. I can 
only say that they never astonished my weak mind in the 
like manner; and that their heads, however dressed, only 
appeared to me a portion of the general woman, and part 


130 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


of tlie universal fitness of things. Ellen was likewise 
amazed, most likely not at the hair, but at the transforma- 
tion of the disconsolate, frightened widow, into the hand- 
some, fashionable, stylish lady, talking over London ac- 
quaintance and London news with my father and Griff 
whenever they left the endless subject of the Bristol advent- 
ures. 

The widow had gained a good deal in beauty since her 
early girlhood, having regular features, eyes of an uncom- 
mon deep blue, very black brows, eyelashes, and hair, and 
a form of the kind that is better after early youth is over. 
‘‘A fine figure of a woman,^' Parson* Frank pronounced 
her, and his wife, with the fine edge of her lips replied, 

“ exactly what she is!^^ 

She looked upon us younger ones as mere children still 
—indeed she never looked at me at all if she could help it 
— but she mortally offended Emily by penning her up in a 
corner, and asking if Griff were engaged to that sentimental 
little girl. 

Emily colored like a turkey-cock between wrath and em- 
barrassment, and hotly protested against the word senti- 
mental. 

“ Ah, yes, I see!^^ she said in a patronizing tone, “ she 
is your bosom friend, eh? That’s the way those things al- 
ways begin. You need not answer; I see it all. And no 
doubt it is a capital thing for him; properties joining and 
all. And she will get a little air and style when he takes 
her to London.” 

It was a tremendous offense even to hint that Ellen’s style 
was capable of improvement; perhaps an unprejudiced eye 
would have said that the difference was between high-bred 
simplicity and the air of fashion and society. 

In our eyes Lady Peacock was the companion of the eld- 
ers, and as such was appreciated by the gentlemen; but ^ 
neither of the two mothers was equally delighted with her, ^ 
nor was mine at all sorry when, on Tuesday, the boxes i 
were packed, post-horses sent for, and my lady departed t 
with great expressions of thankfulness to us all. 

‘‘ A tulip to a jasmine,” muttered Griff as she drove ^ 
off, and he looked up at his Ellen’s sweet refined face. 3 

The Unfortunate Colonel Brereton put an end to himself 1 
when the court-martial was half over. How Clarence was I 
shocked and how ardent was his pity! But Griffith re- i 


CHAKTEY HOUSE. 


131 


ceived the thanks of the Corporation of Bristol for his gal- 
lant conduct, when the special assize was held in January. 
Mrs. Pordyce was almost as proud of him as we were, and 
there was much less attempt at restraining the terms on 
which he stood with Ellen — though still the formal engage- 
ment Avas not permitted. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

QUICKSANDS. 

Whither shall I go? 

Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? 

Tennyson. 

It was in the May of the ensuing year, 1832, that Clar- 
ence was sent down to Bristol for a few weeks to take the 
place of one of the clerks in the office where the cargoes of 
the incoming vessels of the firm were received and over- 
hauled. 

This was a good-natured arrangement of Mr. Castle- 
ford ^s in order to give him change of work and a sight of 
home, where,, by the help of the coach, he could spend his 
Sundays. That first spring day on his way down was a 
great delight and even surprise to him, who had never seen 
our profusion of primroses, cowslips, and blue-bells, nor 
our splendid blossom of trees — apple, lilac, laburnum — all 
vying in beauty with one another. Emily conducted him 
about in great delight, taking him over to Hillside to see 
Mrs. Pordyce '’s American garden, blazing with azaleas, and 
glowing with rhododendrons. He came back with a great 
bouquet given to him by Ellen, who had been unusually 
friendly with him, and he was more animated and full of 
life than for years before. 

Next time he came he looked less happy. There was 
plenty of room in our house, but he used, by preference, 
the little chamber within mine, and there at night he asked 
me to lend him a few pounds, since Griffith had written 
one of his ofi-hand letters asking him to discharge a little 
bill or two at Bristol, giving the addresses, but not sending 
the accounts. This was no wonder, since any inclosuro 
doubled the already heavy postage. One of tliese bills was 
for some sporting equipments from tlie gunsmith ""s; 
another, much heavier, from a tavern for breakfasts^ or 


132 


CHANTKY HOUSE. 


ratlier luncheons, to parties of gentlemen, mostly bearing 
date in the summer and autumn of 1830, before the friend- 
ship with the Fordyces had begun. On Clarence ^s defray- 
ing the first and a]3plying for the second, two more had 
come in, one from a jeweler for a pair of drop-ear-rings, the 
other from a nurseryman for a bouquet of exotics. Doubt- 
ing of these two last, Clarence had written to Griff, but had 
not yet received an answer. The whole amount was so 
mucli beyond what he had been led to expect that he had 
not brought enough money to meet it, and wanted an ad- 
vance from me, promising repayment, to which latter 
point I could not assent, as botli of us knew, but did not 
say, we should never see the sum again, and to me it only 
meant stinting in hew books and curiosities. We were 
anxious to get the matter settled at once, as Griffith spoke 
of being dunned; and it might be serious, if the tradesmen 
applied to my father, when he was still groaning over revela- 
tions of college expenses. 

On the ensuing Saturday, Clarence showed me Griff’s 
answer — I Had forgotten these items. The ear-rings were 
a Avedding-present to the pretty little barmaid, Avho had 
been very civil. The bouquet was for Lady Peacock; I felt 
bound to do something to atone for mamma’s severe virtue. 
It is all right, you best of brothers.” 

It was consolatory that all the dates were prior to the 
Hillside fire, except that of the bouquet. As to the ear- 
rings, we all knew that Griff could not see a pretty girl Avith- 
out talking nonsense to her. Anyway, if they were a wed- 
ding-present, there was an end of it; and we were only glad 
to prevent any hint of them from reaching the ears of the 
authorities. • 

Clarence had another trouble to confide to me. He had 
strong reason to believe that Tooke, the managing clerk at 
Bristol, was carrying on a course of peculation, and feather- 
ing his nest at the expense of the firm. What a grand dis- 
covery, thought I, for such a youth to have made. The 
firm Afould be infinitely obliged to him, and his fortune 
would be secured. He shook his head, and said that was all 
my ignorance; the man, Tooke, was greatly trusted, espe- 
cially by Mr. Frith the senior partner, and Avas so Clevel- 
and experienced that it Avould be almost impossible to es- 
tablish anything against him. Indeed he had browbeaten 
Clarence, and convinced him at the moment that his sus- 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


133 


picions and perplexities were only due to the ignorance of 
a foolish, scrupulous youth, who did not understand the 
customs and perquisites of an agency. It was only when 
Clarence was alone, and reflected on the matter by the 
light of experience gained on a similar expedition to Liver- 
pool, that he had perceived that Mr. Tooke had been 
throwing dust in his eyes. 

“ I shall only get into a scrape myself,^ ^ said Clarence 
despondently. “ I have felt it coming ever since I have 
been at Bristol;’^ and he pushed his hair back with a weary 
hopeless gesture. 

“ But you don^t mean- to let it alone?^^ I cried indig- 
nantly. 

He hesitated in a manner that painfully recalled his fail- 
ing, and said at last, ‘‘I don^t know; I suppose I ought 
not."" 

‘‘ Suppose?"" I cried. 

“ It is not so easy as you think,"" he answered, ‘‘ espe- 
cially for one who has forfeited the right to be believed. I 
must wait till I have an opportunity of speaking to Mr. 
Castleford, and then I can hardly do more than privately 
give him a hint to be watchful. You don"t know how 
things are in such houses as ours. One may only ruin one"s 
self without doing any good. "" 

‘‘ You can not write to him?"" 

Certainly not. He has taken his family to Mrs. Castle- 
ford "s home in the north of Ireland for a month or six 
weeks. I don"t know the address, and I can not run the 
risk of the letter being opened at the office."" 

“ Can"t you speak to my father?"" 

Impossible! it would be a betrayal. He would do 
things for which I should never be forgiven. And, after 
all, remember, it is no business of mine. I know of agents 
at the docks who do such things as a matter of course. It 
is only that I happen to know that Harris at Liverpool 
does not. Very possibly old Frith knows all about it. I 
should only get scored down as a meddlesome prig, worse 
hypocrite than they think me already. "" 

He said a good deal more to this effect, and I remember 
exclaiming, ‘‘ Oh, Clarence, the old story!"" and then 
being frightened at the whiteness that came over his face. 

Little did I know the suffering to which those woi’ds of 
mine condemned him. For not only had he to make up 


134 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


his mind to resistance, which to his nature was infinitely 
worse than it was to Grifiith to face a raging mob, but he 
knew very well that it would almost inevitably produce his 
own ruin, and renew the disgrace out of which he was be- 
ginning to emerge. I did not — even while I prayed that he 
might do the right — ^guess at his own agony of supplica- 
tion, carried on incessantly, day and night, sleeping and 
waking, that the Holy Spirit of might should brace his will 
and govern his tongue, and make him say the right thing 
at the right time, be the consequences what they might. 
Ho one, not constituted as he was, can guess at the anguish 
he endured. I knew no more. ’ Clarence did not come 
home the next Saturday, to my mother^s great vexation; 
but on Tuesday a small parcel was given to me, brought 
from our point of contact with the Bristol coach. It con- 
tained some pencils I had asked him to get, and a note 
marked 'private. Here it is: 

‘‘ Dear Edward, — I am summoned to town. Tooke 
has no doubt forestalled me. We have had some curious 
interviews, in which he first, as I told you, persuaded me 
out of my senses that it was all right, and then, finding 
me still dissatisfied, tried in a delicate fashion to apprise 
me that I had a claim to a share of the plunder. When I 
refused to appropriate anything without sanction from 
head-quarters, he threatened me with the consequences of 
presumptuous interference. It came to bullying at last. I 
hardly know what I answered, but I donT think I gave in. 
How, a sharp letter from old Frith recalls me. Say noth- 
ing at home; and whatever you do, do not betray Griff. 
He has more to lose than I. Help me in the true way, as 
you know how. 

‘‘ Ever yours, W. C. W.^" 

I need not dwell on the misery of those days. It was well 
that my father had ruled that our letters should not be 
family property. Here were all the others discussing a pro- 
posed tour in the north of Devon, to be taken conjointly 
with the Fordyces, as soon as Griff should come home. My 
mother said it would do me good; she saw I was flagging, 
but she little guessed at the continual torment of anxiety, 
and my wonder at the warning about Griff. 

At the end of the week came another letter. 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


135 


You need not speak yet. Papa and mamma will 
know soon enough. I brought down £150 in specie, to be 
paid over to Tooke. He avers that only £130 was received. 
What is my word worth against his? I am told that if I 
am not prosecuted it will only be out of respect to my fa- 
ther. I am not dismissed yet, but shall get notice as soon 
as letters come from Ireland.- I have written, but it is not 
. in the nature of things that Mr. Castleford should not ac- 
cept such proofs as have been sent him. I have no hope, 
and shall be glad when it is over. The part of black sheep 
is not a pleasant one. Say not a word, and do not let my 
father come up. He could do no good, and to see him be- 
lieving it all would be the last drop in the bucket. 

N.B . — In this pass, nothing would be saved by bringing 
Griff into it, so be silent on your life. Innocence does not 
seem to be much comfort at present. May be it will come 
in time. I know you will not drop me, dear Ted, wherever 
I may be.^^ 

Heed I tell the distress of those days of suspense and 
silence, when my only solace was in being left alone, and 
in writing letters to Clarence which were mostly torn up 
again. 

My horror was lest he should be driven to go off to the 
sea, which he loved so well, knowing, as nobody else did, 
the longing that sometimes seized him for it — a hereditary 
craving that curiously conflicted with the rest of his dispo- 
sition; and, indeed, his lack was more of moral than of 
physical courage. It haunted me constantly that his en- 
treaty that my father should not come to London was a bad 
sign, and that he would never face such another return 
home. And was I justified in keeping all this to myself, 
when my father ^s presence might save him from the flight 
that would indeed be the surrender of his character, and to 
the life of a common sailor? Never have I known such 
leaden days as these, yet the misery was not a tithe of what 
Clarence was undergoing. 

I was right in my forebodings. Prosecution and a sec- 
ond return home in shame and disgrace were alike hideous 
to Clarence, and the present was almost equally terrible, 
for nobody at the ofl&ce had any doubt of his guilt, and the 
young men who had sneered at his strictness and religious 
habits regarded him as an imniasked hypocrite, only wait- 


13G 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


ing on sufferance till his greatly deceived patron should 
write to decide on the steps to be taken with him, while he 
knew he was thought to be brazening it out in hopes of 
again deceiving Mr. Oastleford. 

The sea began to exert its power over him, and he 
thought with longings of its freedom, as if the sails of the 
vessels were the wings of a dove to flee away and be at rest. 
He had no illusions as to the roughness of the life and com-, 
panionship; but in his present mood, the frank rudeness 
and profanity of the sailors seemed preferable to his 
cramped life, and the scowls of his fellows; and he knew 
himself to have seamanship enough to rise quickly, even if 
he could not secure a mater’s berth at first. 

Mr. Oastleford could not be heard from till the end of 
the weeki Friday, Saturday came and not a word. That 
was the climax! When the consignment of cash, hitherto 
carried by Clarence to the Bank of England, was com- 
mitted to another clerk, the very office-boy sniggered, and 
the manager demonstratively waited to see him depart. 

Unable to bear it any longer, he walked toward Wap- 
ping, bought a south wester, examined the lists of shipping, 
and entered infco conversation with one or two sailors about 
the vessels making up their crews; intending to go down 
after dark, to meet the* skipper of a craft bound for Lis- 
bon, who, he heard, was so much in want of a mate as per- 
haps to overlook the lack of testimonials, and at any rate 
take him on board on Sunday. 

Going home to pick up a few necessaries, a book lent to 
him by Miss Newton came in his way, and he felt drawn to 
carry it home, and see her face for the last time. 

All unconscious of his trouble and of his intentions, the 
good lady told him of her strong desire to hear a celebrated 
preacher at a neighboring church on the Sunday evening, 
but said that, in her partial blindness and weakness, she 
was afraid to venture, unless he would have the extreme 
goodness, as she said, to take care of her. He saw that she 
wished it so much that he had not the heart to refuse, and 
he recollected likewise that very early on Monday morning 
would answer his purpose equally well. 

It was the 7th of June. The Psalm was the 37th — the 
supreme lesson of patience: “ Hold thee still in the Lord; 
and abide patiently on Him; and He shall bring it to pass. 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 137 

He shall make thy righteousness as clear as the light, and 
thy just dealing as the noonday.^* 

The awful sense of desolation seemed to pass awa}’’ under 
those words, with that gentle woman beside him. And the 
sermon was on “ Oh, tarry thou the Lord^s leisure; be 
strong and He shall comfort thine heart; and put thou thy 
trust in the Lord. " 

Clarence remembered nothing but the text. But it was 
borne in upon him that his purpose of flight was ‘‘ the old 
story, cowardice and virtual distrust of the Lord, as well 
as absolute cruelty to us who loved him. 

When he had deposited Miss Newton at her own door, 
he whispered thanks, and an entreaty for her prayers. 

And then he went home, and fought the battle of his 
life, with his own horrible dread of Mr. Oastleford^’s dis- 
appointment; of possible prosecution; of the shame at 
home; the misery of a life a second time blighted. He 
fought it out on his knees, many a time persuading himself 
that flight would not be a sin, then returning to the sense 
that it was a temptation of his worse self to be overcome. 
And by morning he knew that it would be a surrender of 
himself to his lower nature, and the evil spirit behind it; 
while, by facing the worst that could befall him, he would 
be falling into the hand of the Lord. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

AFTER THE TEMPEST. 

Nor deem the irrevocable past 
As wholly wasted, wholly vain, 

If rising on its wrecks at last 
To something nobler we attain. 

Longfellow. 

All the rest of the family were out, and I was relieved 
by being alone with my distress, not forced to hide it, when 
the door opened and “Mr. Castleford ^Mvas announced. 
After one mementos look at me, one touch of my hand, he 
must have seen that I was faint witli anxiety, and said, 
“ It is all right, Edward; I see you know all. I am come 
from Bristol to tell your father that he may be proud of his 
son Clarence.-'^ 

I don’t know what I did. Perhaps I sobbed and cried. 


138 


CHANTKY HOUSE. 


but the first words I could get out were, “ Does he know? 
Oh! it may be too late. He may be gone off to sea!^'’ I 
cried, breaking out with my chief fear. Mr. Oastleford 
looked astounded, then said, “ I trust not. I sent off a spe- 
cial messenger last night, as soon as I saw my way — 

Then I breathed a little more freely, and could under- 
stand what he was telling me, namely, that Tooke had ac- 
cused Clarence of abstracting £20 from the sum in his 
charge. The fellow accounted for it by explaining that 
young Winslow had been paying extravagant bills at a tav- 
ern, where the bar-maid showed his presents, and boasted of 
her conquest. All this had been written to Mr. Oastleford 
by his partner, and he was told that it was out of defer- 
ence to himself that his protege was not in custody, nor 
had received notice of dismissal; but, no doubt, he would 
give his sanction to immediate measures, and communicate 
with the family. 

The effect had been to make the good man hurry at once 
from the Gian t^s Causeway to Bristol, where he had arrived 
on Sunday, to investigate the books and examine the mider- 
lings. In the midst Tooke attempted to abscond, but he 
was brought back as he was embarking in an American ves- 
sel; and he then confessed the whole — ^how speculation had 
led to dishonesty, and following evil customs not uncom- 
mon in other firms. Then, when the fugitive found that 
young Winslow was too acute to be blinded, and that it had 
been a still greater mistake to try to overcome his integ- 
rity, self-defense required liis ruin, or at any rate his expul- 
sion, before he could gain Mr. Castleford^s ear. 

Tooke really believed that the discreditable bills were the 
young man ^s own, and proofs of concealed habits of dissi- 
pation; but this excellent man had gone into the matter, 
repaired to the tradesfolk, learned the date, and whose the 
accounts really were, and had even hunted up the bar-maid, 
who was not married after all, and had no hesitation in avow- 
ing that her beau had been the handsome young Yeomanry 
lieutenant. Mr. Castleford had spent the greater part of 
Monday in this painful task, but had not been clear enough 
till quite late in the evening to dispatch an express to his 
partner, and to Clarence, whom he desired to meet him 
here. 

“ He has acted nobly,^^ said our kind friend. “ His only 
error seems to have been in being too good a brother. 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


139 


This made me implore that nothing should be said about 
Griffith's bills, showing those injunctions of Clarence^s 
which had so puzzled me, and explaining the circumstances. 
Mr. Castleford hummed and hawed, and perhaps wished he 
had seen my father before me; but I prevailed at last, and 
when the others came in from their drive, there was noth- 
ing to alloy the intelligence that Clarence had shown rare 
discernment, as well as great uprightness, steadfastness, 
and moral courage. 

My mother, when she had taken in the fact, actually shed 
tears of joy. Emily stood by me, holding my hand. My 
father said, “ It is all owing to you, Castleford, and the 
helping hand you gave the poor boy. 

“Nay,” was the answer, “it seems to me that it was 
owing to his having the root of the matter in him to over- 
come his natural failings.’’^ 

Still, in all the rejoicing, my heart failed me lest the ex- 
press should have come too late, and Clarence should be 
already on the high seas, for there had been no letter from 
him on Sunday morning. It was doubtful whether Mr. 
Castleford ^s messenger could reach London in time for tid- 
ings to come down by the coach — far less did we expect 
Clarence — and we had nearly finished the first course at 
dinner, when we heard the front door open, and a voice 
speaking to the butler. Emily screamed, “ It^s he! Oh, 
mamma, may I?^^ and fiew out into the hall, dragging in 
a pale, worn and weary - wight, all dust and heat, having 
traveled down outside the coach on a broiling day, and 
walked the rest of the way. He looked quite bewildered at 
the rush at him; my father^s “ Well done, Clarence,^^ and 
strong clasp; and my mother’s fervent kiss, and muttered 
something about washing his hands. 

Formal folks, such as we were, had to sit in our chairs; 
and when he came back apologizing for not dressing, as he 
had left his portmanteau for the carrier, he looked so white 
and ill that we were quite shocked, and began to realize 
what he had suffered. He could not eat the food that was 
brought back for him, and allowed that his head was ach- 
ing dreadfully; but, after a glass of wine had been admin- 
istered, it was extracted that he had met Mr. Frith at the 
office door, and been gruffly told jthat Mr. Castleford was 
satisfied, and he might consider himself acquitted. 


140 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


“ And then I had yoiir letter, sir, thank you,^^ said Clar- 
ence, scarcely restraining his tears. 

“ The thanks are on our side, my dear hoy,^^ said Mr. 
Castleford. ‘‘I must talk it over with you, but not till 
you have had a night ^s rest. You look as if you had not 
known one for a good while. 

Clarence gave a sort of trembling smile, not trusting 
himself to speak. Approbation at home was so new and 
strange to him that he could scarcely bear it, worn out as 
he was by nearly a month of doubt, distress, apprehension, 
and self-debate. 

My mother went herself to hasten the preparation of his 
room, and after she had sent him to bed went again 
to satisfy herself that he was comfortable and not feverish. 
She came back wiping away a tear, and saying he had 
looked up at her just as when she had the three of us in 
our nursery cribs. In truth these two had seldom been so 
happy together since those days, though the dear mother, 
while thankful that he had not failed, was little aware of 
the conflict his resolution had cost him, and the hot journey 
and long walk came in for more blame for his exhaustion 
than they entirely deserved. 

My father perhaps understood more of the trial; for when 
she came back, declaring that all that was needed was 
sleep, and forbidding me to go to my room before bed-time, 
he said he must bid the boy good-night. 

And ho spoke as liis reserve would have never let him 
sjieak at any other time, telling Clarence how deeply thank- 
ful he felt for the manifestation of such truthfulness and 
moral courage as he said showed that the man had con- 
quered the failings of the boy. 

Nevertheless, when I retired for the night, it was to And 
Clarence asleep indeed, but most uneasily, tossing, moan- 
ing, and muttering broken sentences about “ disgracing his 
pennant,'^ ‘‘never bearing to see mammals face — and 
the like. 1 thought it a kindness to wake him, and he 
started up. “ Ted, is it you? I thought I should never 
hear your dear old crutch again! Is it really all right — 
then, sitting up and passing his hand over his face, “ J 
always mix it up with the old affair, and think the court- 
martial is coming again. 

“ There^s all Sie difference now.^^ 

“Thank God! yes — He has dragged me through! But 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


141 


it did not seem so in one^s sleep, nor waking neither — 
though sleep is worst, and happily there was not much of 
that! Sit down, Ted; I want to look at you. I canT be- 
lieve it is not three weeks since I saw you last.^^ 

We talked it all out, and 1 came to some perception of 
the fearful ordeal it had been — first, in the decision neither 
to shut his eyes, nor to conceal that they were open; and 
then in the lack of presence of mind and the sense of con- 
fusion that always beset him when browbeaten and talked 
down, so that, in the critical contest wdth Tooke, he felt as 
if his feet were slipping from under him, and what had 
once been clear to him was becoming dim, so that he had 
only been assured that he had held his ground by Tooke 's 
redoubled persuasions and increased anger. And for a 
clerk, whose years were only twenty-one, to oppose a man- 
ager, who had been in the service more than the whole of 
that space, was preposterous insolence, and likely to result 
in the utter ruin of his own prospects, and the character he 
had begun to retrieve. It was just after this, the real 
crisis, that he had the only dream which had not been mis- 
ery and distress. In it she — she yonder — yes, tho lady with 
the lamp, came and stood by him, and said, ‘‘ Be stead- 
fast.’^ 

“ It was a dream,” said Clarence. “ She was not as she 
is in the mullion room, not crying, but with a sweet, sad 
look, almost like Miss .Fordyce — if Miss Fordyce ever 
looked sad. It was only a dream.” 

Yet it had so refreshed and comforted him that we have 
often since discussed whether the spirit really visited him, 
or whether this was the manner in which conscience and 
imagination acted on his brain. Indeed, he always believed 
that the dream had been either Heaven-sent or Heaven- 
permitted. 

The die had been cast in that interview when he had let 
it be seen that he was dangerous, and could not be bought 
over. The after consequences had been the terrible distress 
and temptation I have before described, only most inade- 
quately. ‘‘ But that,” said Clarence,, half smiling, “ only 
came of my being such a wretched creature as I am. 
There, dear old Miss Newton saved me — yes, she did — most 
unconsciously, dear old soul. Don’t you remember how 
Griff used to say she maundered over the text. Well, she 
did it all the way home in my ear, as she clung to my arm 


142 


CHANTllY HOUSE. 


— ‘ Bo strong, and He shall comfort thine heart. ^ And 
then I knew my despair and determination to leave it all 
behind were a temptation — ‘ the old story, as you told 
me, and I prayed God to help me, and just managed to 
fight it out. Thank God for her!^^ 

If it had not been for that good woman, he would have 
been out of reach — already out in the river — before Mr. 
Gastleford^s messenger had reached London! He might 
call himself a poor creature — and certainly a man of 
harder, bolder stuff would not have fared so badly in the 
strife; but it always seemed to me in after years that much 
of what he called the poor creature — the old, nervous, 
timid, diffident self — had been shaken off in that desperate 
struggle, perhaps because it had really given him more 
self-reliance, and certainly inspired others with confidence 
in him. 

We talked late enough to have horrified my mother, but 
I did not leave him till he was sleeping like a child, nor did 
he wake till I was leaving the room at the sound of the 
bell. It was alleged that it was thfe first time in his life 
that he had been late for prayers. Mr. Castleford said he 
was very glad, and my mother, looking severely at me, said 
she knew we had been talking all night, and then went off 
to satisfy herself whether he ought to be getting up. 

There was no doubt on that score, for he was quite him- 
self again, though he was, in looks and in weariness, just 
as if he had recovered from a bad illness, or, as he put it 
himself, he felt as tired and bruised as if he had been in a 
stiff gale. Mr. Castleford was sorry to be obliged to ask 
him to go through the whole matter with him in the study, 
and the result was that he was pronounced to have an ad- 
mirable head for business, as Avell as the higher qualities 
tliat had been put to the test. After that his good friend 
insisted that he should have a long and complete holiday, 
at first proposing to take him to Ireland, but giving the 
notion up on hearing of our projected excursion to the 
north of Devon. Pending this, Clarence was, for neai’ly a 
week, fit for nothing but lying on the grass in the shade, 
playing with the cats and dogs, or with little Anne, looking 
over our drawings, listening to Wordsworth, our reigning 
idol — and enjo3dng, with almost touching gratitude, the 
first approach to petting that had ever fallen to his share. 

The only trouble on his mind was the Quarter Session. 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


143 


Mr. Castleford would hardly have prosecuted an old em- 
ploye, but Mr. Frith was furious, and resolved to make an 
example. Tooke had, however, so carefully entrenched 
himsmf that nothing could be actually made a subject of 
prosecution but the abstraction of the £20 of which he had 
accused Clarence, who had to prove the having received and 
delivered it. 

It was a very painful atfair, and Tooke was sentenced to 
seven years^ transportation. I believe he became a very 
rich and prosperous man in New Houth Wales, and founded 
a family. My father received warm compliments upon his 
sons, and Clarence had the new sensation of being honor- 
ably coupled with Griffith, though he laughed at the idea 
of rnere honesty with fierce struggles being placed beside 
heroism with no struggle at all. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

HOLIDAY - ]krAKING. 

The child upon the mountain-side 
Plays fearless and at ease, 

While the hush of purple evening 
Spreads over earth and seas. 

The valley lies in shadow, 

But the valley lies afar; 

And the mountain is a slope of light 
Upreaching to a star. 

Menella Smedley. 

How pleasant it was to hear Griffith's cheery voice, as 
he swung himself down, out of a cloud of dust, from the 
top of the coach at the wayside stage-house, whither Clar- 
ence and I had driven in the new britzska to meet him. 
While the four fine coach-horses were led off, and their suc- 
cessors harnessed in almost the twinkling of an eye. Griff' 
was with us; and we did nothing but laugh and poke fun 
at each other all the way home, without a word of graver 
matters. 

I was resolved, however, that Griff should know how ter- 
ribly his commission had added to Clarence^s danger, and 
how carefully the secret had been guarded; and the first 
time I could get him alone, I told him the whole. 

The effect was one of his most overwhelming fits of 
laughter. “ Poor old Bill! To tliink of his being accused 


144 CHANTKY HOUSE. 

of gallanting about with bar-maids!'’^’ (an explosion at every 
pause) ‘ ‘ and reveling with officers! Poor old Bill ! it was as 
bad as Malvolio himself 1^^ 

When, indignant at the mirth excited by what had nearly 
cost us so dear, I observed that these items had nearly 
turned the scale against our brother. Griff demanded how 
we could have been such idiots as not to have written to 
him; I might at least have had the sense to do so. As to 
its doing him harm at Hillside, Parson Prank was no fool, 
and knew what men were made of! Griff would have taken 
the risk, come at once, and thrust the story down the Eel- 
low ^s throat (as indeed he would have done). The idea of 
Betsy putting up with a pious young man like Bill, whose 
only flame had ever been old Miss Hewton!^-’ And he 
roared again at the incongruous pair. Oh, wasnT she 
married after all, the hussy? She always had a dozen 
beaus, and professed to be on the point of putting up her 
bans; so if the ear-rings were not a wedding-present, they 
might have been, ought to have been, and would be some 
time or other. 

Then he patted me, and declared there was no occasion 
for my disgusted looks, for no one knew better than him- 
self that he had the best brace of brothers in existence, 
wanting in nothing but common sense and knowledge of 
the world. As to Betsy — faugh! I need not make myself 
uneasy about her; she knew what a civil word was worth 
much better than I did. 

He showed considerable affection for Clarence after a 
fashion of his own, which we three perfectly understood, 
and preferred to anything more conventional. Griff was 
always delightful, and he was especially so on that vacation, 
when every one was in high spirits; so that the journey is, 
as I look back on it, like a spot of brilliant sunshine in the 
distant landscape. 

Mrs. Pordyce kept house with her father-in-law, little 
Anne, and Martyn, whose hohdays began a week after we 
had started. The two children were allowed to make a 
desert island and a robbers’ cave in the beech wood; and 
the adventures which their imaginations underwent there 
completely threw ours into the shade. 

The three • ladies and I started in the big Hillside oj)en 
carriage, with my brothers on the box and the two fathers 
on horseback. Prank Pordyce was a splendid rider, as in- 


CHAJSTJtY HOUSE. 


145 


deed was the old rector, who had followed the hounds, 
made a leap over a fearful chasm, still known as the Par- 
son ^s Stride, and had been an excellent shot. The renun- 
ciation of field sports had been a severe sacrifice to Frank 
Fordyce, and showed of what excellent stuff he was made. 
He used to say that it was his own fault that he had to give 
them up; another man would have been less engrossed by 
them. Though he only read by fits and starts when his 
enthusiasm was excited, he was thorough, able, and acute, 
and his intelligence and sympathy were my father’s best 
compensation for the loss of London society. 

The two riders were a great contrast. Mr. Winslow had 
^pointed, somewhat precise, and 



barrister, and a thin, somewhat 


worn and colorless face, with grizzled hair and white whisk- 
ers; and though he rode wml, with full command of his 
horse, he was old enough to have chosen Chancery for her 
sterling qualities. Parson Frank, on the other hand, 
though a thorough gentleman, was as ruddy and weather- 
browned as any farmer, and— albeit his features were hand- 
some and refined, and his figure well poised and athletic — 
he lost something of dignity by easiness of gesture and 
carelessness of dress, except on state occasions, when he 
discarded his beloved rusty old coat and Oxford mixture 
trousers, and came out magnificent enough for an archdea- 
con, if not an archbishop; while his magnificent horse, 
Cossack, was an animal that a sporting duke might have 
envied. 

Nothing ever tired that couple, but my father had stipu- 
lated for exchanges with Griffith. On these occasions it 
almost invariably happened that there was a fine view for 
Ellen to see, so that she was exalted to the box with Griffith 
to show it to her, and Chancery was consigned to Clarence. 
Griff was wont to say that Chancery deserved her name, 
and that he would defy the ninety-ninth part of a tailor to 
come to harm with her; but Clarence was utterly unpracticed 
in riding, did not like it, was tormented lest Cossack’s 
antics should corrupt Chancery, and was mortally afraid of 
breaking the knees of the precious mare. Not all Parson 
Frank’s good advice and kindly raillery, would induce him 
to risk riding her on a descent; and as our travels were 
entirely up and down hill, he was often left leading her far 
behind, in hot sun or misty rain, and then would come can- 


14G 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


tering hastily up, reckless of parallels with John Gilpin, 
and only anxious to be in time to help me out at the halt- 
ing-place; but more than once only coming in when the 
beefsteaks were losing their first charm, and then good- 
humoredly serving as the general butt for his noble horse- 
manship. Did any one fully comprehend how much pleas- 
anter our journey was through the presence of one person 
entirely at the service of the others? For my own part, it 
made an immense difference to have one pair of strong 
arms and dexterous well-accustomed hands always at my 
service, enabling me to accomplish what no one else, kind 
as all were, would have ventured on letting me attempt. 
Primarily, he was my devoted slave; but he was at the 
beck and call of every one, making the inquiries, managing 
the bargains, going off in search of whatever was wanting 
— taking in fact all the must be dones of the journal. 
The contemplation of Cossack and Chancery being rubbed 
down, and devouring their oats was so delightful to Frank 
Fordyce and Griffith that they seldom wished to shirk it; 
but if there were any more pleasing occupation, it was a 
matter of course that Clarence should watch to see that the 
ostlers did their duty by the animals — an obsolete cere- 
mony, by the bye. He even succeeded in hunting up and 
hiring a side-saddle when the lovers, with the masterfulness 
of their nature, devised appropriating the horses at all the 
most beautiful places, in spite of Frank^s murmur, ‘‘ What 
will mamma say?^^ But, as Griff said, it was a real mercy, 
for Ellen was infinitely more at her ease with Chancery 
than was Clarence. Then Emily had Clarence to walk up the 
hills with her, and help her in botany — her special depart- 
ment in our tour. Mine was sketching, Ellen^s, keeping 
the journal, though we all shared in each other^s work at 
times; and Griff, whose line was decidedly love-making, 
interfered considerably with us all, especially with our 
chronicler. I spare you the tour, young people; it lies be- 
fore me on the table, profusely illustrated and written in 
many hands. As I turn it over, I see noble Dunster on its 
rock; Clarence leading Chancery down Porlock Hill; Par- 
son Frank in vain pursuit of his favorite ancient hat over 
that wild and windy waste, the sheep running away from 
him; a boat tossing at lovely Minehead; a ‘‘ native bar- 
gaining over a crab with my mother; the wonderful Valley 
of Pocks, and many another scene, ludicrous or grand; for. 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


147 


indeed, we were forever taking the one step between the 
, sublime and the ridiculous! Tam inclined to believe it is 
as well worth reading as many that have rushed into princ, 
and it is full of precious reminiscences to Emily and me; 
but the younger generation may judge for itself, and it 
would be an interruption here. The country we saw was 
of utterly unimagined beauty to the untraveled eyes of 
most of us. I remember Ellen standing on Hartland 
Point, with her face to the infinite expanse of the Atlantic, 
and waving back Griff with ‘‘ Oh, don T speak to me.^^ 
Yet the sea was a delight above all to my mother and Clar- 
ence. To them it was a beloved friend; and magnificent 
as was Lynmouth, wonderful as was Clovelly, and glorious 
as was Hartland, I believe they would equally have wel- 
comed the waves if they had been on the flattest of muddy 
shores! The ripple, plash, and roar were as familiar 
voices, the salt smell as native air; and my mother never 
had thawed so entirely toward Clarence as when she found 
him the only person who could thoroughly participate her 
feeling. 

At Minehead they stayed out, walking up and down to- 
gether in the summer twilight till long after every one else 
was tired out, and had gone in; and when at last they ap- 
peared she was leaning on Clarence ^s arm, an mxprecedent- 
ed spectacle! 

At Appledore, the only place on that rugged coast where 
boating tempted them, there was what they called a pretty 
little breeze, but. quite enough to make all the rest of us 
decline venturing out into Bideford Bay. They, however, 
found a boatman and made a trip, which was evidently 
such enjoyment to them, that my father, who had been a 
little restless and uneasy all the time, declared on their re- 
turn that he felt quite jealous of Neptune, and had never 
known what a cruelty he was committing in asking a sea- 
nymph to marry a London lawyer. 

Mr. Foi-dyce told him he was afraid of being like the 
fisherman who wedded a mermaid, and made Ellen tell 
the story in her own pretty way; but while we were laugh- 
ing over it, I saw my mother steal her hand into myfather^s 
and give it a strong grasp. Such gestures, which she de- 
nominated pawing, when she witnessed them in Emily, 
were so alien to her in general that no doubt this little 
action was infinitely expressive to her husband. She was 


148 


CHANTKT HOUSE. 


wonderfully softened, and Clarence implied to me tliat it 
was the first time she had ever seemed to grieve for him 
more than she despised him, or to recognize his deprivation 
more than his disgrace — implied, I say, for the words he 
used were little more than — “ You canH think how nice 
she was to me.’^ 

The regaining of esteem and self-respect was lessening 
Clarence^s bashfulness, and bringing out his powers of con- 
versation, so that he began to be appreciated as a pleasant 
companion, answering Griffis raillery in like fashion, and 
holding his own in good-natured repartee. Mr. Fordyce 
got on excellently with him in their tete-a-tetes (who would 
not with Parson Frank?), and held him in higher estima- 
tion than did Ellen. To her, honesty was common, tame, 
and uninteresting in comparison with heroism; and Griff’s 
vague statement that Clarence was the best brother in the 
world did not go for much. Emily and I longed to get the 
two better acquainted, but it did not become possible while 
Griff absorbed the maiden as his exclusive property. 

The engagement was treated as an avowed and settled 
thing, though I do not know that there had been a formal 
ratification by the parents; but in truth Mrs. Fordyce 
must have tacitly yielded her consent when she permitted 
her daughter to make the journey under the guardianship 
of Parson Frank. After a walk in the ravine of Lynton, 
we became aware of a ring upon Ellen’s finger; and Emily 
was allowed at night to hear how and when it had been 
2)ut on. 

Ellen only slightly deepened her lovely carnation tints 
when her father indulged in a little tender teasing and 
lamentation over himself. She was thoroughly happy and 
j^roud of her hero, and not ashamed of owning it. 

There was one evening when she and I were sitting with 
our sketch-books in the shade on the beach at Ilfracombe, 
whjle the rest had gone, some to bathe, the others to make 
purchases in the town. We had been condoling with one 
another over the impossibility of finding anything among 
our water-colors that would express the wondrous tints be- 
fore our eyes. 

‘‘ No, nothing can do it,” I said at last; “ we can only 
make a sort of blot to assist our memories. ” 

“ Sunshine outside and in!” said Ellen. ‘‘ The memory 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 149 

of such days as these can never fade away — no, nor thank- 
fulness for them, I hope.^'’ 

Something then passed about the. fact that it was (]uite 
possible to go on in complete content in a quiet monotonous 
life, in an oyster-like way, till suddenly there was an un- 
veiling and opening of unimagined capacities of enjoyment 
— as by a scene like this before us, by a great poem, an 
oratorio, or, as I supposed, by Niagara or the Alps. Ellen 
put it — ‘‘Oh! and by feelings for the great and good 
Dear girl, her color deepened, and I am sure she meant her 
bliss in her connection with her hero. Presently, however, 
she passed on to saying how such revelations of unsuspected 
powers of enjoyment helped one to enter into what was 
meant by “ Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath 
it entered into the heart of man to conceive, the things 
that God hath prepared for them that love Him. Then 
there was a silence, and an inevitable quoting of the 
“ Christian Year,’’^ the guide to all our best thoughts — 

“ But patience, tliere may come a time A’ 

And then a turning to the “ Ode to Immortality,^ for 
Wordsworth was our second leader, and we carried hin;i on 
our tour as our one secular book, as Keble was our one re- 
ligious book. We felt that the principal joy of all this 
beauty and delight was because there was something be- 
yond. Presently Ellen said, prettily and shyly, “I am 
sure all this has opened much more to me than I ever 
thought of. I always used to be glad that we had no 
brothers, because our cousins were not always pleasant with 
us; but now I have learned what valuable possessions they 
are, she added, with the sweetest, prettiest glance of her 
bright eyes. 

I ventured to say that I was glad she said they, and 
hoped it was a sign that she was finding out Clarence. 

“ I have found out tliat I behaved so ill to him that I 
have been ashamed ever since ip look at him or speak to 
hini,^^ said Ellen; “ I long to ask his pardon, but I believe 
that would distress him more than anything. 

In which she was right; and I was able to tell her of the 
excuses there had been for the poor boy, how he had suf- 
fered, and how he had striven to conquer his failings; and 
she replied that the words, “ Judge not, that ye be not 
judged,^^ always smote her with the remembrance of her 


150 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


disdainfully cantering past liim. There was a tear in her 
eyelashes, and it drew from me an apology for. having 
brought a painful recpllection into our bright day. 

‘‘ There must be shade to throw uj) the lights/’ she said, 
with her S 2 )arkling look. 

Was it shade that we never fell into one of these grave 
talks when Griffith was present, and that the slightest ap- 
proach to them was sure to be turned by him into jest? 

We made our journey a little longer than we intended, 
crossing the moors so as to spend a Sunday at Exeter; but 
hl’ank Fordyce left us, not liking to give his father the 
entire duty of a third Sunday. 

Emily says she has come to have a superstition that ex- 
tensions of original plans never turn out well, and certainly 
some of the charm of our journey departed with the merry, 
genial Parson Frank. Our mother was more anxious about 
Ellen, and put more restrictions on the lovers than when 
the father was present to sanction their doings. Griffith 
absolutely broke out against her in a way he had nevei* 
ventured before, when she forbade Ellen’s riding with him 
when he wanted to hire a horse at Lydford and take an 
excursion on the moor before joining us at Okehampton. 

My father looked up, and said, “ Griffith. .1 am surprised 
at you.” He was constrained to mutter some apology, 
and I believe Ellen privately begged my mother’s pardon, 
owning her to have been quite right; but, by the dear girl, 
the wonderful cascade and narrow gorge were seen through 
swollen eyes. And poor Clarence must have had a line 
time of it when Griffith had to ride off with him faute de 
mieux. 

All was cleared off, however, when we met again, for 
Griff’s storms were very fleeting, and Ellen treated him as 
if she had to make her own peace with him. She sacrificed 
her own enjoyment of Exeter Cathedral to go about with 
him when he had had enough of it, but on Sunday after- 
noon she altogether declined to walk with him till after the 
second service. He laughed at her supposed passion for 
sacred music, and offered to wait with her to hear the 
anthem from the nave. “ Ho,” she said, “ that would be 
amusing ourselves instead of worshiping. ” 

“ We’ve done our devoir in that way already,” said 
Griff. “ Paid our dues.” 

“One can’t,” cried Ellen, with an eager look. “One 


CHAKTIIY HOUSE. 


151 


longs to do all the more when lie has just let us have such 
a taste of His beautiful things. ^ ^ 

“ One^ perhaps, when one is a little saint/ ^ returned 
Griff. 

“ Oh, donH, Griff! I^m not that; but you know every 
one wants all the help and blessing that can be got. And 
then it is so ielightful!^^ 

He gave a long whistle. ‘‘ Every one to his taste,” he 
said; “ especially you ladies. 

He did come to the cathedral with us, but he had more 
than half spoiled this last Sunday. Hid he value her for 
what was best in her, or was her influence raising him? 


CHAPTER XXVL 

C. MOKBUS, ESQ. 

Forgot were hatred, wrongs and fears, 

The plaintive voice alone she hears, 

Sees hut the dying man. 

Scott. 

“ C. Morbus, Esq. Such was the card that some wicked 
wag, one of Clarence^s fellow-clerks probably, left at his 
lodgings in the course of the epidemic which was beginning 
its ravages even while we were upon our pleasant journey — 
a shade indeed to throw out the light. 

In these days, the tidings of a visitation of cholera are 
heard with compassion for crowded town's, but without 
special alarm for ourselves or our friends, since its con- 
ditions and the mode of combating it have come to be 
fairly imderstood. 

In 1832, however, it was a disease almost unknown and 
unprecedented except in its Indian abode, whence it had 
advanced city by city, seaport by seaport, sweeping down 
multitudes before it; nor had science yet discovered how to 
encounter or forestall it. We heard of it in a helpless sort 
of way, as if it had been the plague or the Black Heath, 
and thought of its victims as doomed. 

That terrible German engraving, ‘‘Heath as a Foe,^^ 
which represents the grisly form as invading a ball-room in 
Paris, is an expression of the feeling with which the scourge 
was regarded on that first occasion. “Two Years Ago ” 
gives some notion of the condition of things in 1849, but by 


152 


CHANTRY HORSE. 


that time there had been some experience, and means of 
prevention were better understood. On the alarm in that 
year there was a great inspection of cottages throughout 
ilarlscombe and Hillside, but in 1832 there was no notion 
of such precautions. Nevertheless, on neither visitation, 
nor any subsequent one, has the disease come nearer to us 
than Bristol. 

As far as memory serves me, the idea was that wholesome 
food, regular habits, and cleanliness were some protection, 
but one locality might be as dangerous as another. There 
had been cases in London all the spring, but no special anxi- 
ety was felt when Clarence returned to his work in the end 
of July, much refreshed and invigorated by his holiday, and 
with the understanding that he was to have a rise in position 
and salary on Mr. Casfcleford’s return from Ireland, where 
he was still staying with his wife^s relations. Clarence was 
received at the office with a khid of shame-faced cordiality, 
as if every one would fain forget the way in which he had 
been treated; and he was struck by finding that all the talk 
was of the advances of the cholera, chiefly at Rotherhithe. 
And a great shock awaited him. He went, as soon as 
business hours were over, to thank good old Miss Newton 
for the comfort and aid she had unwittingly given him, and 
to tell her from what she had saved him. Alas! it was the 
last benefit she was ever to confer on her old pupil. At 
the door he was told by a weeping, terrified maid that she 
was very ill with cholera, and that no hope was given. He 
tried to send up a message, but she was in a state of collapse 
and insensible; and when he inquired the next morning, the 
gentle spirit had passed away. 

He attended her funeral that same evening. Griff said 
it was a proof how your timid people will do the most fool- 
hardy things; but Clarence always held that the good wom- 
an had really done more for him than, any one in actually 
estabhshing a contact, so to say, between his spirit and ex- 
ternal truth, and he thought no mark of respect beyond her 
deserts. She was a heavy loss to him, for no one else in 
town gave him the sense of home kindness; and there was 
much more to depress him, for several of his Sunday class 
were dead, and the school had been broken up for the 
time, while the heats and the fruits of August contributed 
to raise the moidality. 

His return had released a couple more clerks for their 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


153 


holiday; it was a slack time of year, with less business in 
hand than usual, and the place looked empty. Mr. Frith 
worked on as usual, but preserved an ungracious attitude, 
as though he were either still i ncredulous or, if convinced 
against his will, resolved that ‘‘ that prig of a Winslow 
should not presume upon his services. Altogether the 
poor fellow was quite unhinged, and wrote such dismal 
bills of mortality, and meek, resigned forebodings that my 
father was almost angry, declaring that he would frighten 
himself into the sickness; yet I suppressed a good deal, 
and never told them of the last will and testament in which 
he distributed his possessions amongst us. Griff said he 
had a great mind to go and shake old Bill up and row him 
well, but he never did. 

More than a week passed by, two of Olarence^’s regular 
days for writing, but no letter came. My mother grew un- 
easy, and talked of writing to Mrs. Robson, or, as we still 
called her, Gooch; but it was doubtful whether the answer 
would contain much information, and it was quite certain 
that any ill-tidings would be sent to us. 

At last we did hear, and found, as we had foreboded, 
that the letter had not been writien for fear of alarming us, 
or carrying infection, though Clarence underlined the words 
“ I am perfectly well. 

Having to take a message into the senior partner’s room, 
Clarence had found the old man crouched over the table, 
writhing in the unmistakable grip of the deadly enemy. 
No one else was available f Clarence had to collect himself, 
send for the doctor, and manage the conveyance of the 
patient to his rooms, which fortunately adjoined the office; 
for, through all his influx of wealth, Mr. Frith had retained 
the habits and expenditure of his early struggling days. 
His old housekeeper and her drudge showed themselves ter- 
rified out of their senses, and as incapable as unwilling. 
Naval experience, and waiting on me, had taught Clarence 
helpfulness and handiness; and though this was the very 
dhing that had appalled his imagination, he seemed, as he 
said afterward, “ to have got beyond his fright ” to the use 
of his common sense. And when at last the doctor came, 
and talked of finding a nurse, if possible, for they were 
scarce articles, the sufferer only entreated between his 
paroxysms, “ Stay, Winslow! Is Winslow there? Don’t 
go! Don’t leave me!” 


154 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


No nurse was to be found, but to Clarence ^s amazement 
Gooch arrived. He had sent by the office-boy to explain 
his absence; and before night the faithful woman descended 
on him, intending, as in her old days of authority, simply 
to put Master Clarry out of harm^s way, and take the 
charge upon herself. Then, as he proved unmanageable 
and would not leave his patient, neither would she leave 
him, and through the frightful night that ensued, there 
was quite employment enough for them both. Gooch 
fully thought the end would come before morning, and was 
murmuring something about a clergyman, but was cut 
short by a sharp prohibition. However, detecting Clar- 
ence's lips moving, the old man said, “ Eh! speak it out!" 
“ And with difficulty, feeling as if I were somebody else," 
said Clarence, ‘‘ I did get out some short words of prayer. 
It seemed so awful for him to die without any." 

When the doctor came in early morning, the watchers 
were astonished to hear that their charge had taken a turn 
for the better, and might recover if their admirable care 
were continued. The doctor had brought a nurse; but Mr. 
Frith would not let her come into the room, and there was 
plenty of need for her elsewhere. 

Several days of unremitting care followed, during which 
Clarence durst not write to us, so little were the laws of 
infection understood. Good Mrs. Eobson stayed all the 
time, and probably saved Clarence from falling a victim to 
his zeal, for she looked after him as anxiously as after the 
sick man; and with a wondering and thankful heart, he 
fomid himself in full health, when both were set free to re- 
turn home. Clarence had written at the beginning of the 
illness to the only relations of whose existence or address he 
was aware, an old sister, Mrs. Stevens, and a young great- 
nephew in the office at Liverpool; and the consequence was 
the arrival of a sour-looking, old widow sister, who came 
to take charge of the convalescence, and, as the indignant 
Gooch overheard her say, “ to prevent that young Winslow 
from getting round him." 

There were no signs of such a feat having been per- 
formed, when, ihe panic being past, my father went up to 
London with Griffith, who was to begin eating his terms at 
the Temple. He was to share Clarence's lodgings, for the 
Eobsons had plenty of room, and Gooch was delighted to 
extend her cares to her special favorite, as she already 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


155 


reigned over Clarence^s wardrobe and table as entirely as in 
nursery days; and, to my great exultation, my father said 
it would be good for Griffith to be with his brother; and, 
moreover, we should hear of the latter. Nothing could be 
a greater contrast than his rare notifications or requests, 
scrawled on a single side of the quarto sheet, with Clarence’s 
regular weekly lines of clerkly manuscript, telling all that 
could interest any of us, and covering every available flap 
up to the blank circle left for the trim red seal. 

Promotion had come to Clarence in the natural course of 
seniority, and a small sum, due to him on his coming of 
age, was invested in the house of business, so that the two 
brothers could take between them all the Robsons’ available 
rooms. Clarence’s post was one of considerable trust; but 
there were no tokens of special favor, except that Mr. 
Frith was more civil to my father than usual, and when he 
heard of the arrangement about the lodgings, he snarled 
out, “ H’m! Law student indeed! ‘Don’t let him spoil his 
brother!” 

Which was so far an expression of gratitude that it 
showed that he considered that there was something to be 
spoiled. Mr. Castleford, however, showed real satisfaction 
in the purchase of a share in the concern for Clarence. His 
own eldest son inherited a good deal of his mother’s Irish 
nature, and was evidently unfit to be anything but a 
soldier, and the next was so young that he was glad to have 
a promising and trustworthy young man, from whom a 
possible joint head of the firm might be manufactured. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

PETER’S THUNDER-BOLT. 

If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanors you are 
welcome to the house; if not, and it would please you to take leave 
of her, she is very willing to hid you farewell. — Twelj^th Night. 

In the early summer of 1833, we had the opportunity of 
borrowing a friend’s house in Portman Square for six 
weeks, and we were allowed to- take Ellen with us for in- 
troduction to the admiral and other old friends, while we 
were to make acquaintance with her connections — the 
family of Sir Horace Lester, M. P. 


156 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


We were very civil; but there were a good many polite 
struggles for the exclusive possession of Ellen, whom both 
parties viewed as their individual right; and her unselfish 
good humor and brightness must have carried her over more 
worries than we guessed at the time. 

She had stayed with the Lesters before, but in school- 
room days. They were indolent and uninterested, and had 
never shown her any of the permanent wonders of London, 
despising these as only fit for country cousins, whereas we 
had grown -up to think of them with intelligent alfection. 
To me, however, much was as new as to Ellen. Country 
life had done so much for me that I could venture on what 
I had never attempted before. The admiral said it was 
getting away from doctors and their experiments, but I had 
also done with the afiiictions of attempts at growth in wrong 
directions. Old friends did not know me, and more than 
once, as I sat in the carriage, addressed me for one of my 
brothers — a compliment which. Griff said, turned my head. 
Happily I was too much accustomed to my own appear- 
ance, and people were too kind, for me to have much shy- 
ness on that score. Our small dinner-parties were great 
enjo}^ment to me, and the two girls were very happy in 
their little gayeties. 

Braham and Catalani, Fanny Kemble, and Turner’s 
landscapes at his best, rise in my memory as supreme de- 
lights and revelations in their different lines, and awaken- 
ing trains of thought; and then there was that entertain- 
ment which Griffith and Clarence gave us in their rooms, 
when they regaled us with all the delicacies of the season, 
and Peter and Gooch looked all pride and hospitality! The 
dining-parlor, or what served as such, was Griff’s property, 
as any one could see by the pictures of horses, dogs, and 
ladies, the cups, whips, and boxing-gloves that adorned it; 
the sitting-room had tokens of other occupation, in Clar- 
ence’s piano, window-box of flowers, and his one extrava- 
gance in engravings from Raphael, and a marine water-color 
or two, besides all my own attempts at family portraits, 
with a case of well-bound books. Those two rooms were 
perfectly redolent of their masters — I say it literally — for 
the scent of flowers was in Clarence’s room, and in Griff’s, 
the odor of cigars had not wholly been destroyed even by 
much airing. For in those days it was regarded by parents 
and guardians as an objectionable thing. 


CHAKTKY HOUSE. 


157 


Peter was radiant on that occasion; but a few evenings 
later, when all were gone to an evening-party except my 
father and myself, Mr. Eobson was announced as wishing 
to speak to Mr. Winslow. After the civilities proper to the 
visit of an old servant had passed, he entered with obvious 
reluctance on the purpose of his visit, namely, his dissatis- 
faction with Grilf as a lodger. His wife, he said, would 
not have had him speak, she was that attached to Mr. 
Griffith, it couldn^t be more if he was her own son; nor 
was it for want of liking for the young gentleman on his 
part, as had known him from a boy, “ but the wife of one^s 
bosom must come first, sir, as stands to reason, and iPs 
for the good of the young gentleman himself, and his 
family, as some one should speak. I never said one word 
against it when she would not be satisfied without running 
the risk of her life after Mr. Clarence; hattending of Mr. 
Frith in the cholery. T'hat was only her dooty, sir, and I 
have never a word, to say against dooty: but 1 can not see 
her nearly wore out, and for no good to nobody. 

It appeared th^t Mrs. Eobson was ‘‘ pretty nigh wore 
out, a setting up for Mr. Griffith's untimely hours. ‘‘ He 
laughed and coaxed — what I calls cajoling — did Mr. Griff, 
to get a latch-key; but we knows our dooty too well for 
that, and Mrs. Winslow had made us faithfully promise, 
when Master Clarence first came to us, that he should 
never have a latch-key — Mr. Clarence, as had only been 
five times later than eleven o^clock,'and then he was going 
to dine with Mr. Castleford, or to the theayter, and spoke 
about it beforehand. If he was not reading to poor Miss 
Newton, as was gone, or with some of the language-mas- 
ters, he was setting at home with his books and papers, not 
giving no trouble to nobody, after he had had his bit of 
bread and cheese and glass of beer to his supper. 

Ay, Peter knew what young gentlemen was. He did not 
expect to see them all like poor Master Clarence, as had 
had his troubles; the very life knocked out of him in his 
youth, as one might say. Indeed Peter would be pleased 
to see him a bit more sprightly, and taking more to society 
and hamusements of his hage. Nor would there be any 
objection if the late ^ours was only once a week or so, and 
things was done in a style fitting the family; but when it 
came to mostly every night, often to two or three oAlock, it 
was too much for Mrs. Eobson, for she would never go to 


158 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


bed, being mortal afraid of fire, and not always certain 
that Mr. Griffith was — ^to say — fit to put out his candle. 

“ What do you mean, Peter?’ ^ thundered my father, 
whose brow had been getting more and more furrowed 
every moment. “ Say it out! Drunk!” 

“ Well, sir, no, no, not to say that exactly, but a little 
excited, sir, and women is timid. No, sir, not to call in- 
toxicated. ” 

“ No, that’s to come,” muttered my father. “ Has this 
often happened?” 

Peter did not think that it had been noticed more than 
three times at the most; but he went on to offer his candid 
and sensible advice that Mr. Griffith should be placed in a 
family where there was a gentleman or lady who would have 
some hauthority, and could not be put aside with his good- 
’umored haff ability — “ You’re an old fogy, Peter.” 
“ Never mind, Nursey, Pll be a good boy next time,” and 
the like. “ It is a disadvantage you see, sir, to have been 
in his service, and ’tis for the young gentleman’s own good 
as I speaks; but it would be better if he' ^vere somewheres 
else — unless you would speak to him, sir, ” 

To the almost needless question whether Clarence had 
been with his brother on these occasions, there was a most 
decided negative. He had never gone out with Griffith 
except once to the theater, and to Sne at the Castlefords, 
and at first he had sat up for his return, “ but it led to 
words between the young gentlemen,” said Peter, whose 
confidences were becoming reckless; and it appeared that 
when Clarence had found that Gooch would not let him 
spare her vigil, he had obeyed her orders and ceased to 
share it. 

Peter was thanked for the revelations, which had been a 
grievous effort to him, and dismissed. My father sat still 
in great distress and perplexity, asking me whether Clar- 
ence had ever told me anything of this, and I had barely 
time to answer “ No,” before Clarence himself came in, 
from what Peter called his language-master. He was tak- 
ing lessons in French and Spanish, finding a knowledge of 
these usefid in business. To his extreme distress, my fa- 
ther fell on him at once, demanding what he knew of the 
way Griffith was spending his time, coming home at all 
sorts of hours in a disreputable condition. No prevarica- 
tion, sir,” he added, as the only too familiar look of com 


TFANTRY HOUSE. 


159 


sternation and bewilderment came over Clarence^s face. 
“You are doing your brother no good by conniving at his 
conduct. Speak truth, if you can,^^ he added, with more 
cruelty than he knew, in his own sutferins:. 

“Sir,” gasped Clarence, “I know &rilf often comes 
home after I am in bed, but I do not know the exact time, 
nor anything more.^^ 

“ Is this air you can tell me? Really all?” 

“All I knov^ — that is — of niy own knowledge,” said 
Clarence, lecoveringa little, but still unable to answer with- 
out hesitation, which vexed my father. 

“ What do you mean by that? Do you hear nothing?” 

“ I am afraid,” said Clarence, “ that 1 do not see as 
much of him as I had hoped. He is not up till after I have 
to be at our place, and he does not often spend an evening 
at home. He is such a popular fellow, and has so many 
friends and engagements. ” 

“Ay, and of what sort? Can^t you tell? or will you 
not? I sent him up to you, thinking you a steady fellow 
who might influence him for good. ^ ^ 

The color rushed into Clarence ^s face, as he answered, 
looking up and speaking low, “ Have I not forfeited all 
such hopes?” 

“ Nonsense! YouVe lived down that old story long 
ago. You would make your mark, if you only showed a 
little manliness and force of character. Griftith was always 
fond of you. CanT you do anything to hinder him from 
ruining his own life and that sweet girFs happiness?” 

“I would — I would give my life to do so!” exclaimed- 
Clarence, in warm, eager tones. “ I have tried, but he says 
I know nothing about it, andTt is very dull at our rooms 
for him. I have got used to it, but you canT expect a fel- 
low like Grilf to stay at home, with no better company 
than me, and do nothing but read law.” 

“ Then you do know,” began my father; but Clarence, 
with full self-possession, said, “ I think you had better ask 
me no more questions, papa. I really know nothing, or 
hardly anything, personally of his proceedings. I went to 
one supper with him, after going to the play, and did not 
fancy it, besides, it almost unfitted me for my morning’s 
work; nor does it answer for me to sit up for him — it only 
vexes him, as if I were watching him. ” 


100 


OHANTP.Y HOUSE. 


“ Did you ever see liim come home showing traces of ex- 
cess 

No!” said Clarence;, “ I never saw!” and, under a 
stern, distressed look, Once I heard tones that — that 
startled me, and Mrs. Hobson has grumbled a good deal — 
but I think Peter takes it for more than it is worth. 

“ I see,” said my father more gently; “ I will not press 
you further. I believe I ought to be glad that these habits 
are only hearsay to you. / 

“As far as I can see,” said Clarence diffidently, but 
quite restored to himself, “ Griff is only like most of his 
set, young men who go into society. 

“Oh!” said my father, in a “ that^s your opinion” 
kind of tone; and as at that moment the yell of a newsboy 
was heard in the street, he exclaimed that he must go and 
get an evening paper. Clarence made a step to go instead, 
but was thrust back, as apparently my father merely want- 
ed an excuse for rushing into the open air to recover the 
shock or to think it over. 

Clarence gave a kind of groan, and presently exclaimed, 
“ If only untruth were not such a sin!” and, on my ex- 
clamation of dismay, he added, “ I don't think a blowing 
up ever does good!” 

“But this state of things should not last.” 

“ It will not. It would have come to an end without 
Peter's springing this mine. Griff says he can't stand 
Gooch any longer! And really she does worry him intoler- 
* ably. ' ' 

“ Peter professed to come without her knowledge or con- 
sent.” 

“ Exactly so. It will almost break the good old soul's 
heart for Griff to leave her; but she expects to have him in 
hand as if he was in the nursery. She is ever so much worse 
than she was with me, and he is really good-nature itself 
to laugh off her nagging as he does — about what he chooses 
to put on, or eating, or smoking, or leaving his room un- 
tidy, as well as other things.” 

“And those other things? Do you suspect more than 
you told papa?” 

“ It amounts to no more. Griff likes amusement, and 
everybody likes him — that's all. Yes, I know my father 
read law ten hours a day, but his whole nature and circum- 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


161 


stances were different. I don^t believe Griff could go on 
in that way. 

Not with such a hope before him? You would, Clar- 
ence.'’^ 

His face and not his tongue answered me, but he added. 

Griff is sure of that without so much labor and trouble.’’ 

And do you see so little of him?” 

“ I can’t help it. I can’t keep his hours and do my 
work. Yes, I know we are drifting apart; I wish I could 
help it, but being coupled up together makes it rather worse 
than better. It aggravates him, and 'he will really get on 
better without Gooch to worry him, and thrust my droning 
old ways down his throat as if Prince Hal could bear to be 
twdtted with ^that sober boy. Lord John of Lancaster.’ 
Not,” he added, catching himself up, “ that I meant to 
compare him to the madcap prince. He is the finest of fel- 
lows, if they only would let him alone.” 

And that was all I could get from Clarence. 


CHAPTER XXVHI. 

A SQUIRE OF DAMES. 

Spited with a fool — 

Spited and angered both. 

Cymheline. 

This long stay of Ellen’s in our family had made our 
fraternal relations with her nearer and closer. Familiarity 
had been far from lessening our strong feeling for heV. 
goodness and sweetness. Emily, who knew her best, used 
to confide to me little instances of the spirit of devotion and 
self-discipline that underlay all her sunny gayety — how she 
never failed in her morning’s devout readings; how she 
learned a verse or two of Scripture every day, and per- 
suaded Emily to join with her in repeating it ere they went 
down-stairs for their evening’s pleasure: how she had set 
lierself a little task of plain work for the poor, which she 
did every day in her own room ; and the like dutiful habits, 
which seemed, as it were, to help her to keep herself in 
hand, and not be carried away by what was a whirl of pleas- 
ure to her, though a fashionable young lady would have de- 
spised its mildness. 

Indeed Lady Peacock, with whom we exchanged calls. 


162 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


made no secret of her compassion when she found how 
many parties the ladies were not going to; and Ellen^s own 
relations, the Lesters, would have taken her out almost 
every night if she had not stanchly held to her promise to 
her mother not to go out more than three evenings in the 
week, for Mrs. Fordyce knew her to be delicate, and feared 
late hours for her. The vexation her cousins manifested 
made her feel the more bound to give them what time she 
could, at hours when Griffith was not at liberty. She did 
not like them to be hurt, and jealous of us, or to feel for- 
saken, and she tried to put her affection for us on a differ- 
ent footing by averring that it was not the same kind of 
thing — Emily was her sister. 

One day she had gone to luncheon with the Lesters in 
Cavendish Square, and was to be called for in the carriage 
by me, on the way to take up the other two ladies, who 
were shopping in Regent Street. 

Ellen came running down-stairs, with her cheeks in a 
glow under the pink satin lining of her pretty bonnet, and 
her eyes sparkling with indignation, which could not but 
break forth. 

“I doiiT know how I shall ever go there again she 
exclaimed; “they have no right to say such things!'’^ 
Then she explained. Mary and Louisa had been saying 
horrid things about Griffith— her Griff! It was always their 
•way. Think how Horace had made her treat Clarence! It 
was their way and habit to tease, and call it fun, and she. 
had never minded it before; but this was too bad. Would 
not I put it in her power to give a flat contradiction, such 
as would make them ashamed of themselves? 

Contradict what? 

Then it appeared that the Misses Lester had laughed at 
her, who was so very particular and scrupulous, for having 
taken up with a, regular young man about town. Oh, no, 
they did not think much of it — no doubt he was only just 
like other people; only the funny thing was that it should 
be Ellen, for whom it was always supposed that no saint in 
the calendar, no knight in all the W averley novels, would 
be good enough! And then, on her hot desire to know 
what they meant, they quoted John, the brother in the 
Guards, as having been so droll about poor ElleiFs perfect 
hero, and especially at his straitlaced Aunt Fordyce hav- 
ing been taken in — but of course it was the convenience of 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


163 


joining the estates, and it was agreeable to see that your 
very good folk could wink at things like other people in' 
such a case. Then, when Ellen fairly drove her inquiries 
home, in her absolute trust of confuting all slanders, she 
'was told that Griffith did, what she called ‘ ‘ all sorts of 
things — billiards and all that. And even that he was al- 
ways running after a horrid Lady Peacock, a gay widow. 

‘‘ They went on in fun,^'’ said Ellen, ‘‘ and laughed the 
more when — yes, I am afraid. I did — I lost my temper. 
Eo, donT say I well might, I know I ought not; but I told 
them I knew all about Lady Peacock, and that you were all 
old friends, even before he rescued her from the Bristol 
riots and brought her home to Chantry House; and that 
only made Mary merrier than ever, and say, ‘ What, an- 
other distressed damsel? Take care, Ellen; I would not 
trust such a squire of dames. ^ And then Louisa chimed 
in, ‘ Oh, no, you see this Peacock dame was only conducted, 
like Princess Micomicona and all the rest of them, to. the 
feet of liis peerless Hulciiiea!' And then I heard the 
knock, and I was never so glad in my life!^^ 

“ ’Well!^^ I could not help remarlong, I have heard of 
wc ’ -i 1 1- i- X believed it till now.'^ 



was altogether what you call 

• eQirl TTllcu'i 


mailce, so much as the Lester idea of fun,^^ said Ellen, re- 
covering herself after her outpouring. ‘‘ A very odd notion 
I always thought it was; and Mary and Louisa are not really 
ill-natured, and can not wish to do the harm they might 
have done, if I did not know Griff too well. 

Then, after considering a little, she said, blushing, ‘‘ I 
believe I have told you more than I ought, Edw^ard — I 
couldnT help having it out; but please doiPt tell any one, 
especially that shocking way of speaking of mamma, which 
they could not really mean.^^ 

“ E'o one could who knew her. 

‘‘ Of course not. ITl tell you 'wLat I mean to do. I 
will write to Mary when we go in, and tell her that I know 
she really cares for me enough to be glad that her nonsense 
has done no mischief, and, though I was so foolish and 
wrong as to fly into a passion, of course I know it is only 
her way, and I do not believe one word of it. 

►Somehow, as she looked with those radiant eyes full of 



1C4 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


toward outsiders overcomes many a misgiving, and my 
wrath against the malignity of the Lesters was quite as 
strong as if I had been devoid of all doubts whether Griff 
wore to all oth^r eyes the same halo of pure glory with 
which Ellen invested him. 

Such doubts were very transient. Dear old Griff was too 
delightful, too bright and too brave, too ardent and too 
affectionate, not to dispel all clouds by the sunshine he car- 
ried about with him. If rest and reliance came with Clar- 
ence, zest and animation came with Griffith. He managed 
to take the initiative by declining to remain any longer 
with the Eobsons, sapng they had been spoiled by such a 
model lodger as Clarence, who would let Gooch feed him 
on bread and milk and boiled mutton, and put on his clean 
pianfore if she chose to insist; whereas her indignation, 
when Griff found fault with the folding of his white ties, 
amounted to Et tu, Brute,” mA he really feared she 
would have had a fit when he ordered deviled kidneys for 
breakfast. He was sure her determination to tuck him up 
every night and put out his candle was shortening her life; 
and he had made arrangements to share the chambers of a 
friend who had gone through school and college with him. 
There was no objection to the friend, who had stayed at 
Chantry House and was an agreeable, lively, young man, 
well reported of, satisfactorily connected, fairly industrious, 
and in good society, so that Griff was likely to be much less 
exposed to temptation of the lower kinds than when left to 
liis own devices, or only with Clarence, who had neither 
time nor disposition to share his amusements. 

There was a scene with my father, but in private; and all 
that came to general knowledge was that Griff felt himself 
injured by any implication that he was given to violent or 
excessive dissipation, such as could wreck Ellen ^s happi- 
ness or his own character. 

He declared with all his heart that immediate marriage 
would be the best thing for both, and pleaded earnestly for 
it; but my father could not have arranged for it even if the 
Eordyces would have consented, and t&re were matters of 
business, as well as other reasons, which made it inexpedi- 
ent for them to revoke their decision that the wedding 
should not take place before Ellen was of age and Griffith 
called to the bar. 

JSo we took our young ladies home, loaded with presents 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


165 


foi’ their beloved school children., of whom Emily said she 
dreamed, as the time for seeing them again drew near. 
After all the London enjoyment, it was pretty to see the 
girls ^ delight in the fresh country sights and sounds in full 
summer glory, and how Ellen proved to have been hunger- 
ing after all her dear ones at home. When we left her at 
her own door, our last sight of her was in her father ^s arms, 
little Anne clinging to her dress, mother and grandfather 
as close to her as could be — a perfect tableau of a joyous 
welcome. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

LOVE AND OBEDIENCE. 

Unless he give me all in change 
I forfeit all things by him; 

The risk is terrible and strange. 

Mrs. Browning. 

You will be weary of my lengthiness; and perhaps I am 
lingering too long over the earlier portion of my narrative. 
Something is due to the disproportion assumed in our 
memories by the first twenty years of existence — something, 
perhaps, to reluctance to passing from comparative sun- 
shine to shadow. There was still a period of brightness, 
but it was so uneventful that I have no excuse for dwelling 
on it further than to say that Henderson, our excellent 
curate, had already made a great difference in the parish, 
and it was beginning to be looked on as almost equal to 
Hillside. The children were devoted to Emily, who was 
the source of all the amenities of their poor little lives. The 
needle-work of the school was my motner^s pride; and our 
church and its services, though you would shudder at them 
now, were then thought presumptuously superior for a 
country parish. They were a real dehght and blessing to 
us, as well as to many more of the flock, who still, in their 
old age, remember and revere Parson Henderson as a sort 
of apostle. 

The dawning of the new Poor-Law led to investigations 
which revealed the true conditions of the peasant's life — its 
destitution, recklessness, and dei)endence. We tried to 
mend matters by inducing families to emigrate, but this 
renewed the distrust which had at first beheld in the schools 


166 


CHAFTKY HOUSE. 


an attempt to enslave the children. Even accounts^ sent 
home by the exceptionally enterprising who did go to Cana- 
da, were, we found, scarcely trusted. Amos Bell, who 
would have gone, if he had not been growing into my spe- 
cial personal attendant, was letter- writer and reader to all 
his relations, and revealed ‘to us that it had been agreed 
that no letter should be considered as genuine unless it 
bore a certain private mark. To be sure, the accounts of 
prosperity might well sound fabulous to the toilers and 
moilers at home. Harriet Martineau’s Hamlets, which 
we lend to many of our neighbors, is a fair picture of the 
state of things. We much enjoyed those tales, and Emily 
says they were the only political economy she ever learned. 

The model arrangements of our vestries led to a sum- 
mons to my father and the younger Mr. Fordyce to Lon- 
don, to be examined on the condition of the pauper, and 
the working of the old Elizabethan Poor-Law. 

They were absent for about a fortnight of early spring, 
and Emily and I could not help observmg that our mother 
was unusually uncommunicative about my father’s letters; 
and, moreover, there was a tremendous revolution of the 
furniture, a far more ominous token in our household than 
any comet. 

The truth came on us when the two fathers returned. 
Mine told me himself that Erank Eordyce was so much dis- 
pleased with Griffith’s conduct that he had declared that 
the engagement could not continue with his consent. 

This from good-natured, tender-hearted Parson Frank! 

I cried out hotly that “ those Lesters ” had done this. 
They had always been set against us, and any one could 
talk over Mr. Frank. My father shook his head. He said 
Frank Fordyce was not weak, but all the stronger for his 
gentleness and charity; and, moreover, that he was quite 
right — to our shame and grief be it spoken — quite right. 

It was true that the first information had been given by 
Sir Horace Lester, Mrs. Fordyce’s brother, but it had not 
been lightly spoken like the daughter’s chatter; and my 
father himself had found it only too true, so that he could 
not conscientiously call Griffith worthy of such a creature 
as Ellen Fordyce. 

Poor Griff, he had been idle and impracticable over his 
legal studies, which no persuasion would make him view as 
otherwise than a sort of nominal training for a country gen- 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


167 


tleman; nor had he ever believed or acted upon the fact 
that the Earlscombe property was not an unlimited fort- 
une, such as woidd permit him to dispense with any pro- 
fession, and spend time and money like the youths with 
whom he associated. Still, this might have been condoned 
as part of the effervescence which had excited him ever 
since my father had succeeded to the estate, and patience 
might still have waited for greater wisdom; but there had 
been graver complaints of irregularities, which were forcing 
his friend to dissolve partnership with him. There was evi- 
dence of gambling, which he not only admitted, but de- 
fended; and, moreover, he was known at parties, at races, 
and at the theater, as one of the numerous satellites who 
revolved about that gay and conspicuous young fashionable 
widow. Lady Peacock. 

Yes, Frank has every right be angry,^^ said my father, 
pacing the room. ‘‘ 1 can’t wonder at him. I should do 
the same; but it is destroying the best hope for my poor 
boy.” 

Then he begaruto wish Clarence had more — he knew not 
what to call it— in him; something that might keep his 
brother straight. For of course, he had talked to Clarence 
and discovered how very little the brothers saw of one 
another. Clarence had been to look for Griff in vain more 
than once, and they had only really met at a Castleford 
dinner-party. In fact, Clarence’s youthful spirits, and 
the tastes which would have made him companionable to 
Griff, had been crushed out of him; and he was what more 
recent slang calls “such a muff,” that he had perforce 
drifted out of our elder brother’s daily life, as much as if 
he had been a grave senior of fifty. It was, as he owned, a 
heavy penalty of his youthful fall that he could not help 
his brother more effectually. 

It appeared that Frank Fordyce, thoroughly roused, had 
had it out with Griffith, and had declared that his consent 
was withdrawn and the engagement annulled. Griff, as- 
tounded at the resolute tone of one whom he considered as 
the most good-natured of men, had answered hotly and 
proudly that he should accept no dismissal except from 
Fllen herself, and that he had done no more than was ex- 
pected of any young man of position and estate. On the 
other indictment he scorned any defense, and the two had 
parted in mutual indignation. He had, however, shown 


168 


CHAIS^TRY HOUSE. 


himself so much distressed at the threat of being deprived 
of Ellen, that neither my father nor Clarence had the least 
doubt of his genuine attachment to her, nor that his atten- 
tions to Lady Peacock were more than the effect of old 
habit and love of amusement, and that they had been much 
exaggerated. He scouted the bare idea of preferring her to 
Ellen; and, in his second interview with my father, was 
ready to make any amount of promises of reformation, pro- 
vided his engagement were continued. 

This was on the last evening before leaving town, and 
he came to the coach-office looking so pale, jaded, and un- 
happy that Parson Frank ^s kind heart was touched; and in 
answer to a muttered “ IVe been ten thousand fools, sir, 
but if you will overlook it I will try to be worthy of her/^ 
he made some reply that could be construed into, “ If you 
keep to that, all may yet be well. ITl talk to her mother 
and grandfather. 

Perhaps this was cruel kindness, for, as we well knew, 
Mrs. Fordyce was far less likely to be tolerant of a young 
many’s failings than was her husband; and she was, besides, 
a Lester, and might take the same view. ^ ^ _ 

Abusing the Lesters was our great resource; for we did 
not believe either the sailor or the guardsman to be im- 
maculate, and we knew them to be jealous. AVe had to re- 
main in ignorance of what we most wished to know, for 
Ellen was kept away from us, and my mother would not 
let Emily go in search of her. Only Anne, who was a high- 
spirited, independent little person, made a sudden rush 
upon me as I sat in the gaiden. She had no business to be 
so far from home alone; but, said she, J donT care, it is 
all so horrid. Please, Edward, is it true that Griff has 
been so very wicked? I heard the maids talking, and they 
said papa had found out that he was a bad lot, and that he 
was not to marry Ellen; but she would stick to him 
through thick and thin, like poor Kitty Brown who would 
marry the man that got transported for seven years. ^ ‘ Will 
he be transported, Edward? and would Ellen go too, like 
the ‘ nut-brown maid^? Is that what she cries so about? 
Hot by day, but all night. I know she does, for her hand- 
kerchief is wet through, and there is a wet place on her 
pillow always in the morning; but she only says, ‘ Never 
mind,^ and nobody will tell me. They only say little girls 
should not think about such things. And I am not so very 


CHAXTRY HOUSE. 


IGD 


little. I am eighty, and have read the ‘ Lay of the Last Min- 
strel/' and I know all about people in love. So you might 
tell me.^^ 

I relieved Anne^s mind as to the chances of transporta- 
tion, and after considering how many confidences might be 
honorably exchanged with the child, I explained that her 
father thought Griff had been idle and careless, and not fit 
as yet to be trusted with Ellen. 

Her parish experience came into play. “ Does papa 
think he would*^ be like Joe Sparks? But then gentlemen 
don^t beat their wives, nor go to the public-house, nor let 
their children go about in rags. 

I durst not inquire much, but I gathered that there was 
a heavy shadow over the house, and that Ellen was striving 
to do as usual, but breaking down when alone. Just then 
Parson Frank appeared. Anne had run away from him 
while on a • farming inspection, when the debate over the 
turnips with the factotum had become wearisome. He 
looked grave and sorrowful, quite unlike his usual hearty self, 
and came to me, leaning over my chair, and saying, This 
is sad work, Edward/^ and, on an anxious venture of an 
inquiry for Ellen, “ Poor little maid, it is very sore work 
with her. She is a good child and obedient — wants to do her 
duty; but we should never have let it go on so long. We 
have only ourselves to thank — taking the family character, 
you see — and he made a kindly gesture toward . me. 
‘‘ Your father sees how it is, and won’t let it make a split 
between us. I believe that not seeing as much of your sis- 
ter as usual is one of my poor lassie’s troubles, but it may 
be best — it may be best. ” 

He lingered talking, unwilling to tear himself away, and 
ended by disclosing, almost at unawares, that Ellen had 
held out for a long time, would not understand nor take in 
what she was told, accepted nothing on Lester authority, 
declared she understood all about Lady Peacock, and 
showed a strength of resistance and independence of view 
that had quite startled her parents, by proving how far 
their darling had gone from them in heart. But they still 
held her by the bonds of obedience; and, by dealing with 
her conscience, her mother had obtained from her a piteous 
little note — 

My dear Griffith, — I am afraid it is true that you 
have not always seemed to be doing right, and papa and 


170 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


mamma forbid our going on as we are. You know I can 
not be disobedient. It would not bring a blessing on you. 
So I must break off, though — 

The “ though ” could be read through an erasure, fol- 
lowed by the initials, E. M. E. — as if the dismal conclusion 
had been felt to be only too true — and there followed the 
postscript, “ Forgive me, and, if we are patient, it may 
come right. 

This letter was displayed, when, on the ensuing evening, 
it brought Griff down. in towering indignation, and trying 
to prove the coercion that must have been exercised to ex- 
tract even thus much from his darhng. Over he went 
headlong to Hillside to insist on seeing her, but to encount- 
er a succession of stormy scenes. Mrs. Fordyce was the 
most resolute, but was ill for a week after. The old rector 
was gentle, and somewhat overawed Griff' by his compas- 
sion, and by representatiens that were only too true; and 
Parson Prank, with his tender heart torn to pieces, showed 
symptoms of yielding another probation. 

The interview with Ellen was granted. She, however, 
was intrenched in obedience. She had promised submis- 
sion to the rupture of her engagement, and she kept her 
word — though she declared that nothing could hinder her 
love, and that she would wait patiently- till her lover had 
proved himself, to everybody's satisfaction, as good and 
noble as she knew him to be. When he told her she did 
not love him, she smiled. She was sure that whatever 
mistakes there might have been, he would give no further 
occasion against himself, and then every one would see that 
all had been mere misunderstanding, and they should be 
happy again. 

Such trust humbled him, and he was ready to make all 
promises and resolutions; but he could not obtain the re- 
newal of the engagement, nor permission to correspond. 
Only there was wrung out of Parson Frank a promise that 
if he could come in two years with a perfectly unstained, 
unblotted character, the betrothal might be renewed. 

We were very thankful for the hope and motive, and 
Griff had no doubts of himself. 

‘‘ One canT look at the pretty creature and think of dis- 
appointing her,^^ he said. ‘‘ She is altered, you know, Ted; 
theyVe bullied her till she is more ethereal than ever, but 
it only makes her lovelier. I believe if she saw me kill 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


171 


some one on the spot she would think it all my generosity; 
or, if she could not, she would take and die. Oh, no! I^’ll 
not fail her. No, I won^t; not if I have to spend seven 
years after the model of old Bill, whose liveliest pastime is 
a good long sermon, when it is not a ghost. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

UHA OR DUESSA. 

Soone as the Elfin knight in presence capie 
And false Duessa, seeming ladye fayre, 

A gentle husher, Vanitie by name, 

Made roome, and passage did for them prepare. 

Spenser. 

The two families were supposed to continue on unbroken 
terms of friendship, and we men did so; but Mrs. Fordyce 
told my mother that she had disapproved of the probation, 
and Mrs. Winslow was hurt. Though the two girls were 
allowed to be together as usual, it was on condition of si- 
lence about GriS; and though, as Emily said, they really 
had not been always talking about him in former times, 
the prohibition seemed to weigh upon all they said. 

Old Mr. Fordyce had long been talking of a round of 
visits among relations whom he had not seen for many 
years; and it was decided to send Ellen with him, chiefly, 
no doubt, to prevent difficulties about Griffith in the long 
vacation. 

There was no embargo on the correspondence with my 
sister and letters full of description came regularly, but 
how unlike they were to our journal. They were clear, in- 
telligent, with a certain liveliness, but no ring of youthful 
joy, no echo of the heart, always as if under restraint. 
Griff was much disappointed. He had been on his good be- 
havior for two months, and expected his reward, and I could 
not here repeat all that he said about her parents when he 
found she was absent. A^et, after all, he got more pity and 
sympathy from Parson Frank than from any one else. That 
good man actually sent a message for him, when Emily 
was on honor to do no such thing. Poor Emily suffered 
much in consequence, when she would neither afford Griff 
a blank corner of her paper, nor write even a veiled mes- 
sage; while as .to the letters she received and gave to him. 


ir-2 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


“ vvhatt was the use/^ he said, “ of giving him what might 
have been read aloud by the town-crier 

‘‘You don^t understand, Gritf; it is all dear Ellen ^s con- 
scientiousness — 

“Oh, deliver me from such con-sci-en-tious-ness,^^ he 
answered, in a tone of bitter mimicry, and flung out of the 
room leaving Emily in tears. 

He could not appreciate the nobleness of Ellen ’s self- 
command and the obedience which was the security of fut- 
ure happiness, but was hurt at wjiat he thought weak aliena- 
tion. One note of sympathy would have^done much for 
Griff just then. I have often thought it over since, and 
come to the conclusion that Mrs. Fordyce was justifled in 
the entire separation she brought about. No one can judge 
of the strength with which “ true love has mastered any 
individual, nor how far change may be possible; and, on 
the other hand, unless there were full appreciation of 
Ellen ^s character, she might only have been looked on as — 

‘‘ Puppet to a father’s threat, 

Servile to a shrewish tongue.” 

Yet, after all, Frank Fordyce was very kind to Griff, mak- 
ing himself as much of a medium of communication as he 
could consistently with his conscience, but of course not 
satisfying one who believed that the strength of love was to 
be proved not by obedience but disobedience. 

Ellen ^s letters showed increasing anxiety about her 
grandfather, who was not favorably affected by the change 
of habits, consequent on a long journey, and staying in 
different houses^ His return was fixed two or three times, 
and then delayed by slight attacks of illness^ till at last he 
became anxious to get home, and set off about the end of 
September; but after sleeping a night at an inn at War- 
wick, he was too ill to proceed any further. His old man- 
servant was with him; but poor Ellen went through a 
great deal of suspense and responsibility before her parents 
reached her. The attack was paralysis, and he never re- 
covered the full powers of mind or body, though they man- 
aged to bring him back to Hillside — as indeed, his restless- 
ness longed for his native home. When once there he became 
calmer, but did not rally; and a second stroke proved fatal 
just before Easter. He was mourned alike by rich and 
poor, “He was a gentleman,^^ said even Ohapman, “ al- 


CHAXTKV HOX’SK. 


17 ;’> 

ways the same to rich or poor, though he was one of tliey 
Fordys/^ 

My father wrote to summon both his elder sons to the 
funeral at Hillside, and in due time Clarence appeared by 
the coach, but alone. He hacLgone to Griffith's chambers 
to arrange about coming down together, but found my 
father's letter lying unopened on the table, and learned 
that his brother was supposed to be staying at a villa in 
Surrey, where there were to be private theatricals. He had 
forwarded the letter thither, and it would still be possible 
to arrive in time by the night mail. 

So entirely xfas Griff expected that the gig was sent to 
meet him at seven o'clock the next morning, but there was 
no sign of him. My father and Clarence went without him 
to the gathering, which showed how deeply the good old 
man was respected and loved. 

It was the only funeral Clarence had attended except 
Miss Newton's hurried one, and his sensitive spirit was 
greatly affected. He had learned reserve when amongst 
others, but I found that he had a strong foreboding of evil; 
he tossed and muttered in his sleep, and confessed to hav- 
ing had a wretched night of dreams, though he would not 
describe them otherwise than that he had seen the lady 
whose face he always looked on as a presage of evil. 

Two days later the “ Morning Post " gave a full account 
of the amateur theatricals at Bella Vista, the seat of Benja- 
min Bullock, Esquire, and the Lady Louisa Bullock; and 
in the list of dramatis personce, there figured Griffith A¥ins- 
low, Esquire, as Captain Absolute, and the fair and ac- 
complished Lady Peacock as Lydia Languish. 

Amateur theatricals were much less common in those 
days than at present, and were held as the ne plus ultra of 
gayety. Moreover, the Lady Louisa Bullock was noted for 
fashionable extravagance of the semi-reputable style; and 
there would have been vexation enough at Griffith's being 
her guest, even had not the performance taken 23lace on 
the very day of the funeral of Ellen's grandfather, so as to 
be an outrage on decorum. 

At the same time, there came a packet franked by a not 
very satisfactory peer, brother to Lady Louisa. My father 
threw a note over to Clarence, and proceeded to read a 
very properly expressed letter full of apologies and con- 
dolences for the Eordyces. 


174 


CHAKTKY HOUSE. 


He could not have got the letter in time/^ was my 
father comment. “When did you forward the letter? 
How was it addressed? Clarence, I say, didnH you hear?” 

Clarence lifted up his face from his letter, so much 
flushed that my mother broke in — “ What^s the matter? 
A mistake in the post-town would account for the delay. 
Has he had the letter?’^ 

“ Oh, yes.^^ 

“ Hot in time — eh?^^ 

“ I^m afraid,” and he faltered, “ he did.” 

“ Did he or did he not?” demanded my mother. 

What does he say?” exclaimed my father. 

“ Sir ” (always an unpropltious beginning for poor Clar- 
ence), “ I should prefer not showing you.” 

“ Nonsense!” exclaimed my mother: “ you do no good 
by concealing it!” 

“Let me see his letter,” said my father, in the voice 
there was no gainsaying, and absolutely taking it from 
Clarence. Hone of us will ever forget the tone in which he 
read it aloud at the breakfast-table. 

“ Dear Bill, — What possessed you to send a death^s- 
head to the feast? The letter would have bitten no one in 
my chambers. A nice scrape I shall be in if you let out 
that your officious precision forwarded it. Of course at the 
last moment I could not upset the whole affair and leave 
Lydia to languish in vain. The whole thing went off mag- 
nificently. Keep counsel and no harm is done. You owe 
me that for sending on the letter. 

“Yom-s, J. G. W.” 

Clarence had not read to the end when the letter was 
taken from him. Indeed to inclose such a note in a dis- 

E atch sure to be opened enfamille was one of Griffith's 
aphazard proceedings, which arose from the p^resent being 
always much more to him than the absent. Clarence was 
much shocked at hearing these last sentences, and ex- 
claimed, “ He meant it in confidence, papa; I implore you 
to treat it as unread!” 

My .father was always scrupulous about private letters, 
and said, “ I beg your pardon, Clarence; I should not have 
forced it from you. I wish I had not seen it. ” 

My mother gave something between a snort and a sigh. 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


175 


It is right for us to know the truth/ ^ she said, ‘‘ but 
that is enough. There is no need that they should know 
at Hillside what was Griffith's alternative.” 

“ I would not add a pang to that dear girTs grief/ ^ said 
my father; “ but I see the Fordyces were right. I shall 
never do anything to bring these two together again. 

My mother chimed in with something about preferring 
Lady Peacock and the Bella Vista crew to Ellen and Hill- 
side, which made us rush into the breach with incoherent 
defense. 

‘‘ I know how it was,^^ said Clarence. ‘‘ His acting is 
capital, and of course these people could not spare him, 
nor understand how much it signified that he should be 
here. They make so much of him.^^ 

“ Who do? asked my mother. ‘‘ Lady Peacock? How 
do you know? Have you been with them?^^ 

“I have dined at Mr. Clarkson^s,^^ Clarence avowed; 
and, on further pressure, it was extracted that Griffith — 
handsome, and with talents such as tell in society — was a 
general favorite, and much engrossed by people who found 
him an enlivenment and ornament to their parties. There 
had been httle or nothing of late of the former noisy, boy- 
ish dissipation; but that the more fashionable varieties were 
getting a hold on him became evident under the cross-ques- 
tioning to which Clarence had to submit. 

My father said he felt like a party to a falsehood when he 
sent Griff's letter up to Hillside, and he indemnified him- 
self by writing a letter more indignant — not than was just, 
but than was prudent, especially in the case of one little 
accustomed to strong censure. Indeed Clarence could not 
restrain a slight groan when he perceived that our mother 
was shut up in the study to. assist in the composition. Her 
denunciations always outran my father's, and her pain 
showed itself in bitterness. I ought to have had the 
presence of mind to refuse to show the letter," he said; 
‘‘ Griff will hardly forgive me." 

Ellen looked very thin, and with a transparent delicacy 
of complexion. She had greatly grieved over her grand- 
father's illness and the first change in her happy home; and 
she must have been much disappointed at Griffith's ab- 
sence. Emily dreaded her mention of the subject when 
they first met. 

“ But," said my sister, she said no word of him. All 


17a. 


(HAKTKY HOUSE. 


slie cared to tell me was of the talks she had with her 
grandfather, when he made her read his favorite chapters 
in the Bible; and though he had no memory for outside 
things, his thoughts were as beautiful as ever. Sometimes 
his face grew so full of glad contemplation that she felt 
quite awe-struck, as if it were becoming like the face of an 
angel. It made her realize, she said, ‘ ‘ how little the ups 
and downs of this life matter, if there can be such peace at 
the last. And, after all, I could not help thinking that 
it was better perhaps that Griff did not come. Any other 
sort of talk would have jarred on her just now, and you 
know he would never stand much of that.-’^ 

Much as we loved our Griff, we had come to the percep- 
tion that Ellen was a treasure he could not esteem prop- 
erly. 

The Lester cousins, never remarkable for good taste. 


forced on her the knowledge 



Her 


father could not refrain from telling us that her exclama- 
tion had been, ‘‘ Poor Griff, how shocked he must be! He 
was so fond of dear grandpapa. Pray, papa, get Mr. Wins- 
low to let him know that I am not hurt, for I know he 
could not help it. Or may I ask Emily to tell him so?^^ 

I wish Mrs. Eordyce would have absolved her from the 
promise not to mention Griff to us. That innocent reli- 
ance might have touched him, as Emily would have nar- 
rated it; but it only rendered my father more indignant, 
and more ' resolved to reserve the message till a repentant 
apology should come. And, alas! none ever came. Just 
wrath on a voiceless paper has little effect. There is rea- 
son to believe that Griff did not like the air of my father’s 
letter, and never even read it. He diligently avoided Clar- 
ence, and the pain and shame his warm heart must have 
felt only made him keep out of reach. 


CHAPTER XXXL 

FACILIS DESCEKSUS. 
The slippeiy verge* her feet beguiled; 


She tumbled headlong in. 


Gray. 


Ohe of Griffith’s briefest notes in liis largest hand an- 
nounced that he had accepted various invitations to couh- 


CHAKTRy HOUSE. 


177 


try houses, for cricket matches, archery meetings, and the 
like; nor did he even make it clear where his address would 
be, except that he would be with a friend in Scotland when 
grouse-shooting began. 

Clarence, however, came home for a brief holiday. He 
.was startled at the first sight of Ellen. He said she was 
indeed lovelier than ever, with an added sweetness in her 
clear eyes and the wild rosefiush in her delicate cheek; but 
that she looked as if she was being refined away to nothing, 
and was more than ever like the vision with the lamp. 

Of course the Eordyces had not been going into society, 
though Ellen and Emily were as much together as before, 
helping one another in practicing their school-children in 
singing, and sharing in one another’s studies and pursuits. 
There had been in the spring a change at Wattlesea; the 
old incumbent died, and the new one was well reported of 
as a very earnest, hard-working man. He seemed to be 
wovided with a large family, and there was no driving into 
Wattlesea without seeing members of it scattered about the 
})lace. 

The Eordyces being anxious to show them attention witli- 
out a regular dinner-party, decided on inviting all the fam- 
ily to keep Anne's ninth birthday, and Emily and Martyn 
were of course to come and assist at the entertainment. 

It was on the morning of the day fixed that a letter came 
to me whose contents seemed to burn themselves into my 
brain. Martpi called across the breakfast-table, Look 
at Edward! Has any one sent you a young basilisk?” 

I wish it was,” I gasped out. 

‘CDon’t look so,” entreated Emily. ‘‘Tell us! Is it 
Griff?” 

“Notill — hurt?” cried my mother. 

“ Oh, no, no. Worse!’’ and then somehow I articulated 
that he was married; and' Clarence exclaimed, “Not the 
Peacock!” and at my gesture my father broke out. “ He 
has done for himself, the unhappy boy. A disgraceful 
Scotch marriage. Eh?” 

“ It was his sense of honor,” I managed to utter. 

“ Sense of fiddlesticks!” said my poor father. “ Don’t 
stop to excuse him. We’ve had enough of that! Let us 
liear. ” 

• I can not give a copy of the letter. It was so painful 
that it was destroyed; for there was a tone of bravado be- 


178 


CHANTRY HOrSE. 


traying his uneasiness, but altogether unbecoming. All 
that it disclosed was, that some one staying in the same 
house had paid insulting attentions to Lady Peacock; she 
had thrown herself on our broth er^s protection, and after 
interfering on her behalf, he had found that there was no 
means of sheltering her but by making her his wife. This 
had been effected by the assistance of the lady of the house 
where they had been staying; and Griffith had written to 
me two days later from Edinburgh, declaring that Selina 
had only to be known to be loved, and to overcome all 
prejudices. 

“ Prejudices, said my father bitterly. “Prejudices in 
favor of truth and honor. 

And my mother uttered the worst reproach of all, when 
in my agitation, I slipped and almost fell in rising — “ Oh, 
my poor Edward! that I should have lived to think yours 
the least misfortune that has befallen my sons!^^ 

“ Nay, mother,'’^ said Clarence, putting Martyn toward 
her, “ here is one to make up for us all. 

“ Olarence,^^ said my father, “ your mother did not 
mean anything but that you and Edward are the comfort 
of our lives. I wish there were a chance of Griffith re- 
deeming the past as you have done; but I see no hope of 
that. A man is never ruined till he is married. ” 

At that moment there was a step in the hall, a knock at 
the door, and there stood Mr. Frank Fordyce. He looked 
at us and said, “ It is true then.^^ 

“ To our shame and sorrow it is,^-’ said my father. 
“ Eordyce, how can we look you in the face?^^ 

“As my dear good friend, and my father's,^'’ said the 
kind man, shaking him by the hand heartily. “ Do you 
think we could blame you for this youth’s conduct? Stay ” 
— for we young ones were about to leave the room. “ My 
poor girl knows nothing yet. Her mother luckily got the 
letter in her bedroom. We can’t put off the Keynoldses, 
you know, so I came to ask the young people to come up 
as if nothing had happened, and then Ellen need know 
nothing till the day is over. ” 

“ If I can,” said Emily. 

“You can be capable of self-command, I hope,” said 
my mother severely, “ or you do not deserve to be called a 
friend. ” 

Suoh speeches might not be pleasant, but they M^ere 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


179 


bracing, and we all withdrew to leave the elders to talk it 
over together, when, as I believe, kind Parson Frank was 
chiefly concerned to argue my parents out of their shame 
and humiliation. 

Clarence told us what he knew or guessed; and we after- 
ward understood the matter to have come about chiefly 
through poor Griflf^s weakness of character, and love of 
amusement and flattery. The boyish flirtation with Selina 
Clarkson had never entirely died away, though it had been 
nothing more than the elder woman ^s bantering patronage 
and easy acceptance of ^the youth^s equally gay, jesting ad- 
miration. It had, however, involved some raillery on his 
attachment to the little Methodistical country girl, and 
this gradually grew into jealousy of her — especially as Griff 
became more of a man, and a brilliant member of society. 
The detention from the funeral had been a real victory on 
the widow^s part, and the few times when Clarence had 
seen them together he had been dismayed at the . cavaliere 
servieiite terms on which Griff seemed to stand; but his 
words of warning were laughed down. The rest was easy 
to gather. He had gone about on the round of visits 
almost as an appendage to Lady Peacock, till they came to 
a free and easy house, where her coquetry and love of ad- 
miration brought on one of those disputes which rendered 
his championship needful; and such defense could only 
have one conclusion, especially in Scotland, where hasty 
private marriages were still legal. What an exchange! 
Only had Griff ever comprehended the worth of his treas- 
ure? 

Emily went as late as she could, that there might be the 
less chance of a tete-a-tete, in which she might be surprised 
into a betrayal of her secret; indeed she only started at last 
when Martyn^s impatience had become intolerable. 

What was our amazement when, much earlier than we 
expected, we saw Mr. Fordyce driving up in his phaeton, 
and heard the story he had to tell. 

Emily^s delay h^ succeeded in bringing her only just in 
time for the luncheon that was to be the children's dinner. 
There 'was a keen -looking, active, sallow clergyman, griz- 
zled, and with an air of having seen much service; a pale, 
worn wife, with a gentle, sensible face; and a bewildering 
flock of boys and girls, all apparently under the command 
of a very brisk, effective-looking elder sister of fourteen or 


180 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


fifteen, who seemed to be the readiest authority, and to de- 
cide what and how much each might partake of, among 
delicacies, evidently rare novelties. 

The day was late in August. The summer had broken; 
there had been rain, and, though fine, the temperature was 
fitter for active sports than anything else. Croquet was 
not yet invented, and, besides, most of the party were of 
the age for regular games at play. Ellen and Emily did 
their part in starting these — finding, however, that the .Rey- 
nolds boys were rather rough, in spite of the objurgations 
of their sister, who evidently thought herself quite beyond 
the age for romps. The sports led them to the great 
home-field on the opposite slope of the ridge from our own. 
The new farm-buildings were on the level ground at the 
bottom to the right, where the declivity was much more 
gradual than to the left, which was very steep, and ended 
in furze-bushes and low copsewood. It was voted a splen- 
did place for hide-and-seek, and the game was soon in such 
full career that Ellen, who had had quite running enough, 
could fall out of it, and with her, the other two elder girls. 
Emily felt Fanny Reynolds^ presence a sort of protection, 

little guessing what she was up to,^^ to use her own ex- 
pression. Perhaps the girl had not earlier made out who 
Emily was, or she had been too much absorbed in her cares; 
but, as the three sat resting on a stump overlooking the 
hill, she was prompted by the singular inopportuneness of 
precocious fourteen to observe, “ I ought to have con- 
gratulated you. Miss Winslow. ” 

Emily gabbled out, “ Thank you, never mind,” hoping 
thus to put a stop to whatever might be coming; but there 
was no such good fortune. “We saw it in the paper. It 
is your brother, isiiT it?” 

“ What?” asked unsuspicious Ellen, thinking, no doubt, 
of some fresh glory to Griffith. 

And before Emily could utter a word, if there were any 
she could have uttered, out it came. “ The marriage — 
John Griffith Winslow, Esquire, eldest son of John Edward 
Winslow of Chantry House, to Selina, relict of Sir Henry 
Peacock and daughter of George Clarkson, Esquire, Q. C. 
I didnT think it could be you at first, because you would 
have been at the wedding. ” 

Emily had not even time to meet Ellen^s eyes before 
they were startled by a shriek that was not the merry 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


181 


‘‘ whoop ” and ‘‘ I spy of the game,, and,, springing up, 
the girls saw little Anne Fordyce rushtng headlong down 
the very steepest part of the slope, just where it ended in an 
extremely muddy pool, the watering-place of the cattle. 
The child was totally unable to stop herself, and so was 
Martyn, who was dashing after her. Not a -word was said, 
though, perhaps, there was a shriek or two, but the elder 
sisters flew with one accord toward the pond. They also 
were some way above it, but at some distance off, so that 
the descent was not so perpendicular, and they could guard 
against overrunning themselves. Ellen, perhaps from 
knowing the ground better, was far before the other two; 
but already poor little Anne had gone straight down, and 
fallen flat on her face in the water, Martyn after her, per- 
haps with a little more free will, for, though he too fell, he 
w^as already struggling to lift Amie up, and had her head 
above water, when Ellen arrived and dashed in to assist. 

The pond began by being shallow, but the bottom sloped 
down into a deep hollow, and was besides covered several 
feet deep with heavy cattle- trodden mire and weeds, in 
which it was almost impossible to gain a footing, or to , 
move. By the time Emily and Miss Reynolds had come to 
the brink, Ellen and Martyn were standing up in the water, 
leaning against one another, and holding poor little Annex’s 
head up — all they could do. Ellen called out, DonTI 
donTcomein! Call some one! The farm! We are sink- 
ing in — You canT help! Call — 

The danger was really terrible of their sinking in the 
mud and weeds, and being sucked into the deep part of the 
pool, and they were too far in to be reached from the bank. 
Emily perceived this, and ran as she had never run before, 
happily meeting on the way with the gentlemen, who had 
been inspecting the new model farm-buildings, and had 
already taken alarm from the screams. 

They found the three still with their heads above water, 
but no more, for every struggle to get up the slope only 
plunged them deeper in the horrible mud. Moreover, 
Fanny Reynolds was up to her ankles in the mud, holding 
by one of her brothers, but unable to reach Martyn. It 
seems she had had some idea of forming a chain of hands 
to pull the others out. 

Even now the rescue was not too easy. Mr. Fordyce 
hurried in, and took Anne in his arms; but, even with his 


182 


CHAJ^TKY HOUSE. 


height and strength, he found his feet slipping away under 
him, and could olily hand the little insensible girl to Mr. 
Reynolds, bidding him carry her at once to the house, while 
he lifted Martyn up only just in time, and Ellen clung to 
him. Thus weighted, he could not get out, till the bailiff 
and another man had brought some faggots and a gate that 
were happily near at hand, and helped him to drag the two 
out, perfectly exhausted, and Martyn* hardly conscious. 
They both were carried to the rectory — Ellen by her fa- 
ther, Martyn by the foreman — and they were met at the 
door by the tidings that little Anne was coming to herself. 

Indeed, by the time Mr. Eordyce had put on dry clothes, 
all three were safe in warm beds, and quite themselves 
again, so that he trusted that no mischief was done; though 
he decided upon fetching my mother to satisfy herself about 
Martyn. However, a ducking was not much to a healthy 
fellow like Martyn, and my mother found him quite fit to 
dress himself in the clothes she brought, and to return 
home with her. Both the girls were asleep, but Ellen had 
had a shivering fit, and her mother was with her, and was 
anxious. Emily told her mother of Fanny Reynolds^ un- 
fortunate speech, and it was thought right to mention it. 
Mrs. Eordyce listened kindly, kissed Emily, and told her 
not to be distressed, for possibly it might turn out to have 
been the best thing for Ellen to have learned the fact at 
such a moment; and, at any rate, it had spared her parents 
some doubt and difficulty as to the communication. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

WALT, WALY. 

And am I then forgot, forgot? 

It broke the heart of Ellen! 

Campbell. 

Clakehce and Martyn walked over to Hillside the first 
thing the next morning to inquire for the two sisters. As 
to one, they were quickly reassured, for Anne was in the 
porch feeding the doves, and no sooner did she see them 
than out she fiew, and was clinging round Martyn ^s neck, 
her hat falling back as she kissed him on both cheeks, with 
an eagerness that made him, as Clarence reported, turn the 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


183 


color of a lobster, aud look shy, not to say sheepish, wliile 
she exclaimed, “ Oh, Martyn! mamma says she never 
thanked you, for you really and truly did save my life, and 
I am so glad it was you — 

“ It was not I, it was Ellen, gruffly muttered Martyn. 

‘‘Oh, yes! but papa says I should have been smothered 
in that horrid mud before Ellen could get to me if you 
had not pulled me- up directly. 

The elders came out by this time, and Clarence was able 
to get in his inquiry. Ellen had had a feverish night, and 
her chest seemed oppressed, but her mother did not think 
her seriously ill. Once she had asked, “Is it true, what 
Fanny Reynolds said?^^ and on being answered, “ Yes, my 
dear, I am afraid it is,^^ she had said no more; and as the 
Fordyce habit of treating colds was with sedatives, her 
mother thought her scarcely awake to the full meaning of 
the tidings, and hoped to prevent her dwelling on them till 
she had recovered the physical shock. Having answered 
these inquiries, the two parents turned upon Martyn, who, 
in an access of shame-facedness-, had crept behind Clarence 
and a great orange-tree, and was thence pulled out by 
Anne^s vigorous efforts. The full story had come to light. 
The Reynolds^ boys had grown boisterous as soon as the 
restraint of the young ladies^ participation had been re- 
moved, and had, whether intentionally or not, terrified little 
Anne in the chases of hide-and-seek. Finally, one of them 
had probably been unable to withstand the temptation of 
seeing her timid nervous way of peeping and prying about; 
and had, without waiting to be properly found, leaped out 
of his lair with a roar that scared the little girl nearly out 
of her wits, and sent her flying, she knew not whither. 
Martyn was a few steps behind, only not holding her hand, 
because the other children had derided her for clinging to 
his protection. He had instantly seen where she was go- 
ing, and shouted to her to stop and take care; but she was 
2)ast attending to him, and he had no choice but to dart 
after her, seeing what was inevitable; while George Rey- 
nolds had sense to stop in time, and seek a safer descent. 
Had Martyn not been there to raise the child instantly from 
the stifling mud, her sister could hardly have been in time 
to save her. 

Mrs. Fordyce tearfully kissed him; her husband called 
him a little hero, as if in joke, then gravely blessed him; 


184 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


and he looked, Clarence related, as if he had. been in the 
greatest possible disgrace. 

It was the second time that one of us had saved a life 
from drowning, but there was none of the exultation we 
had felt that time before in London. 14 was a much graver 
feeling, where the danger had really been greater, and the 
rescue had been of one so dear to us. It was tempered 
likewise by anxiety about our dear Ellen — ours, alas, no 
longer! She was laid up for several days, and it was 
thought better that she should not see Emily till she had 
recovered; but after a week had passed, her father drove 
over to discuss some plans for the poor law arrangements, 
and begged my sister to go back in the carriage and spend 
the day with his daughter. 

We brothers could now look forward to some real intelli- 
gence; we became restless; and in the afternoon Clarence 
and I set out with the donkey-chair on the woodland path 
to meet Emily. We gained more than we had hoped, for 
as we came round one of the turns in the winding-path, up 
the hanging beech- wood, we came on the two friends — 
Ellen, a truly Una-like figure, in her white dress with her 
black scarf making a sable stole. Perhaps we betrayed 
some confusion, for there was a bright fiush on her cheeks 
as she came toward us, and, standing straight up, said, 
“ Clarence, Edward, I am so glad you are here; I \Yanted 
to see you. I wanted — to say — ^I know he could not help 
it. It was his generosity — helping those that need it; and 
—and — Um not angry. And though thaPs all over, you^ll 
always be my brothers, won^t you?^^ 

She held her outstretched hands to us both. I could not 
help it, I drew her down, and kissed her brow; Clarence 
clasped her other hand and held it to his lips, but neither 
of us could utter a word. 

, She turned back and went quietly away through the wood, 
while Emilv sunk down under the beech- tree in a paroxysm 
of grief. You may see which it was, for Clarence cut out 
‘‘ E.M.F., 1835 upon the bark. He soothed and caressed 
poor Emily as in old nursery troubles; and presently she 
told us that it would be long before we saw that dear one 
again, for Mrs. Eordyce was going to take her away on the 
morrow. 

Mrs. Eordyce had seen Emily in private, before letting 
her go to Ellen. There was evidently a great wish to be 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


185 


kind. Mrs. Fordyce said she could never forget what she 
owed to us all, and could not think of blaming any of us. 
‘‘But,^^ she said, “you are a sensible girl, Emily — • 
“howl hate being called a sensible girl,^^ observed the 
poor child, in parenthesis — “ and you must see that it is 
desirable not to encourage her to indulge in needless dis- 
cussion ‘after she once understands the facts.'’’ She added 
that she thought a cessation of present intercourse would be 
' wise till the sore was in some degree healed. She had not 
been satisfied about her daughter’s health for some time, 
and meant to take her to Bath the next day to consult a 
. physician, and then decide what would be best. “ And, 
my dear,” she said, “ if there should be a slackening of cor- 
respondence, do not take it as unkindness, but as a token 
that my poor child is recovering her tone. Do not discon- 
tinue writing to her, but be guarded, and perhaps less 
rapid, in replying.” 

It was for her friendship that poor Emily wept so bitter- 
ly — the first friendship that had been an enthusiasm to her; 
looking at it as a cruel injustice that Griff’s misdoing should 
separate them. The prediction that all might be lived 
down and forgotten was too vague and distant to be much 
consolation ; indeed, we were too young to take it in. 

We had it all over again in a somewhat grotesque form 
when, at another turn in the wood, we came upon Martyn 
and Anne, loaded with treasures from their robbers’ cave, 
some of which were bestowed in my chair, the others car- 
ried off between Anne and her not very willing nursery- 
maid. 

Anne kissed us all round, and augured cheerfully that 
she should lay up a store of shells and rocks by the sea-side 
to make “ a perfect Robinson Crusoe cavern,” she said, 
“ and then Clarence can come and be the Spaniards and 
the savages. But that won’t be till next summer,” she 
added, shaking her head. “ I shall get Ellen to tell Emily 
what shells I find, and then she can tell Martyn; for mam- 
ma says girls never write to boys unless they are their 
brothers! And now Martyn will never be my brother,” she 
added ruefully. 

“You will always be our darling,” I said. 

“ That’s not the same as your sister,” she answered. 
However, amid auguries of the combination of robbers and 
Robinson Crusoe, the parting was effected, and Anne 


186 


CHANTEY HOUSE. . 


borne off by the maid; while we had Martyn on our hands, 
stamping about and declaring that it was very hard that 
because Griff chose to be a faithless, inconstant ruffian, all 
his pleasure and comfort in life should be stopped ! He 
said such outrageous things that, between scolding him and 
laughing at him, Emily had been somewhat cheered by the 
time we reached the house. 

My father has written to Griffith, in his first displeasure, 
curt wishes that he might not have reason to repent of the 
step he had taken, though he had not gone the right way 
to obtain a blessing. As it was not suitable that a man 
should be totally dependent on his wife, his allowance 
should be continued; but under present circumstances he 
must perceive that he and Lady Peacock could not be re- 
ceived at Chantry House. We were shown the letter, and 
thought it terribly brief and cold; but my mother said it 
would be weak to offer forgiveness that was not sought, and 
my father was specially exasperated at the absence of all 
contrition as to the treatment of Ellen. All Griff had 
vouchsafed on that head was — the rupture had been the 
Eordyces^ doing; he was not bound. As to intercourse 
with him, Clarence and I might act as we saw fit. 

‘‘Only,^^ said my father, as Clarence was leaving home, 
‘‘ I trust you not to get yourself involved in this set.^^ 

Clarence gave a queer smile,' ‘‘ They would not take me 
as a gift, papa.^-’ 

And as my father turned from the hall door, he laid his 
hand on his wife^s arm, and said, ‘‘ Who would have told 
us what that young fellow would be to us. 

She sighed, and said, ‘‘He is not twenty- three* he has 
plenty of money, and is very fond of Griff. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE KIVEE'^S bank. 

And my friend rose up in the shadows, 

And turned to me, 

“ Be of good cheer,” I said faintly, 

“ For He called thee.” 

B. M. 

Me. Eoedyce waited at Hillside till after Sunday, and 
then went to Bath to hear the verdict of the physician. 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


187 


He returned as much depressed as it was in his sanguine 
nature to be/for great delicacy of the lungs had been de- 
tected; and to prevent the recent chill from leaving per- 
manent injury, Ellen. must have a winter abroad, and warm 
sea or mountain air at once. Whether the disease were 
constitutional and would have come on at all events no one 
could tell. 

Consumption was much less understood half a century 
ago; cod-liver oil was unknown; and stethoscopes were new 
inventions, only used by the more advanced of the faculty. 
The only escape poor Parson Frank had from accepting 
the doom was in disbelieving that a thing like a trumpet 
could really reveal the condition of the chest. Moreover, 
Mrs. Eordyce had had a brother who had, under the famous 
cow-house cure, recovered enough to return home, and be 
killed by the upsetting of a stage coach. 

Mrs. Eordyce took her daughter to Lyme, and waited 
there till her husband had found a curate and made all 
arrangements. It must have been very inconvenient not to 
come home; but, no doubt, she wanted to prevent any more 
partings. Then they went abroad, traveling slowly, and 
seeing all the sights that came in their way, to distract 
Ellen ^s thoughts. She was not allowed to hear what ailed 
her; but believed her languor and want of interest in every- 
thing to be the effect of the blow she had received, strug- 
gling to exert herself, and to enter gratefully into the enjoy- 
ments provided for her. She was not prevented from 
writing to Emily; indeed, no one liked to hinder anything 
she wished, but they were guide-book letters, describing all 
she saw as a kind of duty, but scarcely concealing the 
trouble it was to look. Such sentences would slip out as 

This is a nice quiet place, and I am happy to say there is 
nothing that one ought to see.^^ Or, “ I sat in the cathe- 
dral at Lucerne while the others were going round. The 
organ was playing, and it was such rest!^^ Or, again, after 
a day on the Lago di Como, “ It was glorious, and if you 
and Edward were here, perhaps the beauty would pene- 
trate my sluggish soul!^^ 

Ellen^s sluggish soul! — when we remembered her keen 
ecstasy at the Valley of Rocks. 

Those letters were our chief interest in an autumn which 
seemed dreary to us, in spite of friendly visitors; for had 
not our family hope and joy been extinguished? There 


188 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


was no direct communication with Griffith after his un- 
pleasant reply to my father^s letter; but Clarence saw the 
newly married pair on their return to Lady Peacock^s house 
in London^, and reported that they, were very kind and 
friendly to him, and gave him more invitations than he 
could accept. Being cross-examined when came home 
for Christmas, he declared his conviction that Lady Pea- 
cock had married Griff entirely from affection, and that he 
had been — well — flattered into it. They seemed very fond 
of each other now, and were launching out into all sorts of 
gayeties; but though he did not tell my father, he confided 
to me that he feared that Griffith had been disappointed in 
the amount of fortune at his wife^s disposal. 

It was at that Christmas- time, one night, having found 
an intrusive cat upon my bed, Clarence carried her out at 
the back door close to his room, and came back in haste 
and rather pale. ‘‘It is quite true about the lady and the 
light being seen out-of-doors,^^ he said in an awe-stricken 
voice, “ I have just seen her flit from the mullion room to 
the ruin.^^ 

We only noted the fact in that ghost-diary of ours — we 
told nobody, and looked no more. We already believed that 
tliese appearances on the lawn must be the cause that every 
window, up to the attics, on the garden side of the house, 
were so heavily shuttered and barred that there was no 
opening them without noise. Indeed, those on the ground 
floor had in addition bells attached to them. 'No doubt the 
former inhabitants had done their best to prevent any one 
from seeing or inquiring into what was unacknowledged and 
unaccountable. It might be only a coincidence, but we 
could not help remarking that we had seen and heard noth- 
ing of her during the engagement which might have united 
the two families; though, of course, it would be ridiculous 
to suppose her cognizant of it, like the White Lady of Ave- 
nel, dancing for joy at Mary's marriage with Halbert Glen- 
dinning. 

The Fordyces had settled at Florence, where they suffered 
a great deal more from cold than they would have done at 
Hillside; and there was such a cessation of Ellen's letters 
that Emily feared that Mrs. Fordyce had attained her wish 
and separated the friends effectually. However, Frank 
Fordyce beguiled his enforced leisure with long letters to 
my father on home business, Austrian misgovernment, and 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


189 


the Italian Church and i^eople, full of shrewd observations 
and new lights; and one of these ended thus, “ My poor 
lassie has been in bed for ten days with a severe cold. She 
begs me to say that she has begun a letter to Emily, and 
hopes soon to finish it. We had thought her gaining 
ground, but she is sadly pulled down. Fiat voluntas.^' 

The letter, which had been begun, never came; but, 
after three long weeks, there was one from the dear patient 
herself, mentioning her illness, and declaring that it was so 
comfortable to be allowed to be tired, and to go nowhere 
and see nothing except the fragment of beau tif ul blue sky, 
and the corner of a campanile, and the flowers Anne 
brought in daily. 

As soon as she could be moved, they took her to Genoa, 
where she revived enough to believe that she should be well 
if she were at home again, and to win from her parents a 
promise to take her to Hillside as soon as the spring winds 
were over. So anxious was she that, as soon as there was 
any safety in traveling, the party began moving northward, 
going by sea to Marseilles to avoid the Corniche, so early 
in the year. There were many fluctuations, and it was only 
her earnest yearning for home and strong resolution that 
could have made her parents persevere; but at last they 
were at Hillside, just after Whitsuntide, in the last week of 
May. 

Frank Fordyce walked over to see us on the very even- 
ing after their arrival. He was much altered, his kindly 
handsome face looked almost as if he had gone through ah 
illness; and, indeed, apart from all his anxiety and sorrow, 
he had pined in foreign parts for his human flock, as well 
as his bullocks and his turnips. He had also read, thought, 
and observed a great deal, and had left his long boyhood 
behind him, during a space for study and meditation such 
as he had never had before. 

He was quite hopeless of his daughter's recovery, and 
made no secret of it. In passing through London the best 
advice had been taken, but only to obtain the ver- 
dict that the case was beyond all skill, and that it was only 
a matter of weeks, when all that could be done was to give 
as much gratification as possible. The one thing that Ellen 
did care about was to be at home — to have Emily with her, 
and once more see her school-children, her church, and 
her garden. Tired as she was she had sprung up in the 


190 


CHAXTRY HOTSE. 


carriage at the first glimpse of Hillside spire, and had 
leaned forward at the window, nodding and smiling her 
greetings' to all the villagers. 

She had been taken at once to her room and her bed, 
but her father had promised to beg Emily to come up by 
noon on the morrow. Then he sat talking of local mat- 
ters, not able to help showing what infinite relief it was to 
him to be at home, and what music to his ears was the 
Somersetshire dialect and deep English voice after all 
those thin, shrill, screeching foreigners.-’^ 

Poor Emily! It was in mingled grief and gladness that 
she set off the next day, wdth the trepidation of one to 
whom sickness and 'decay were hitherto unknown. When 
she returned, it was in a different mood, unable to believe 
the doctors could be right, and in the delight of having her 
own bright, sweet Ellen back again, all herself. They had 
talked, but more of home and village than of foreign ex- 
periences; and though Ellen did not herself assist, she had 
much enjoyed watching the unpacking of the numerous 
gifts which had cost a perfect fortune at the Custom House. 
Ho one seemed forgotten — villagers, children, servants, 
friends. Some of these tokens are before me still. The 
Florentine mosaic paper-weight she brought me presses this 
very sheet; the antique lamp she gave my father is on the 
mantel-piece; Clarence’s engraving of Raphael’s St. Mi- 
chael hangs opposite to me on the wall. Most precious in our 
eyes was the collection of plants, dried and labelled by her- 
self, which she brought to Emily and me — poor mummies 
now, but redolent of undying affection. Her desire was to 
bestow all her keepsakes with her own hands, and in most 
cases she actually did so— a few daily, as her strength 
served her. The little figures in costume, colored prints, 
Swiss carvings, French knickknacks, are preserved in many 
a Hillside cottage as treasured relics of “ our young lady. ” 
Many years later, Martyn recognized a Hillside native in a 
back street in London by a little purple-blue picture of 
Vesuvius, and thereby reached the soft spot in a nearly 
dried-up heart. 

So bright and playful was the dear girl over all her old 
familiar interests that we inexperienced beings believed not 
only that the wound to her affections was healed, but that 
she either did not know or did not realize the sentence that 
had been pronounced on her; bj^t when this was repeated 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


191 


to her mother^ it was met by a sad smile and the reply that 
we only saw her in her best hours. Still, through the sum- 
mer, it was impossible to us to accept the truth; she looked 
so lovely, was so cheerful, and took such delight in all that 
was about her. 

With the first cold, however, she seemed to shrivel up, 
and the bad nights extended into the days. Emily ascribed 
the change to the lack of gomg out into the air, and al- 
ways found reasons for the increased languor and weakness; 
till at last there came a day when my poor little sister 
seemed as if the truth had broken upon her for the first 
time, when Ellen talked plainly to her of their parting, and 
had asked us both, “ her dear brother and sister, to be 
with her at her Communion on All Saints^ Day. 

She had written a little letter to Clarence, begging his 
forgiveness for having cut him, and treated him with the 
scorn which, I believe, was the chief fault that weighed 
upon her conscience; and, hearing my father ^s voice in the 
house, she sent a message to beg him to come and see her 
in her mother’s dressing-room — that very window where I 
had first heard her voice, refusing to come down to ‘‘ those 
Winslovvs.’” She had sent for him to entreat him to for- 
give Grifidth and recall the pair to Chantry House. “Not 
now,” she said, “ but when I am gone.” 

My father could deny her nothing, though he showed 
that the sight of her made the entreaty all the harder to 
him; and she pleaded, “ But you know this was not his 
doing. I never was strong, and it had begun before. Only 
think how sad it would have been for him.” 

My father would have promised anything with that 
wasted hand on his, those fervent eyes gazing on him, and 
he told her he would have given his pardon long ago, if it 
had been sought, as it never had been. 

“ Ah! perhaps he did not dare!” she said. “ AVon’t you 
write when all this is over, and then you will be one family 
again as you used to be?” 

He promised, though he scarcely knew where Griffith 
was. Clarence, however, did. He had answered Ellen’s 
letter, and it had made him ask for a few days’ leave of 
absence. So he came down on the Saturday, and was al- 
lowed a quarter of an hour beside Ellen’s sofa in the Sun- 
day evening twilight. He brought away the calm, rapt 
expression I had sometimes seen on his face at church, and 


192 


CHAI^TEY HOUSE. 


Ellen made a special entreaty that he might share the mor- 
row^ s feast. 

There are some things that can not be written of, and 
that was one. Still we had not thought the end near at 
hand, though on Tuesday morning a message was sent that 
Ellen was suffering and exhausted, and could not see 
Emily. It was a wild, stormy day, with fierce showers of 
sleet, and we clung to the hope that consideration for my 
sister had prompted the message. In the afternoon Clar- 
ence battled with a severe gale, made his way to Hillside, 
and heard that the weather affected the patient, and that 
there was much bodily distress. For one moment he saw 
her father, who said in broken accents that we could only 
pray that the spirit might be freed without much more 
suffering, though no doubt it is all right. 

Before daylight, before any one in the house was up, 
Clarence was mounting the hill in the gusts that had done 
their work on the tree,s^ and were subsiding with the dark- 
ness. And j nst as he was beginning the descent, as the sun 
tipped the Hillside steeple with light, he heard the knell, 
and counted the twenty-one for the years of our Ellen — ^for 
ours she will always be. 

‘‘ Somehow,^ he told me, I could not help taking off 
my hat and giving thanks for her, and then all the drops 
on all the boughs l3egan sparkling, and there was a hush on 
all around as if she were passing among the angels, and a 
thrush broke out into a regular song of jubilee 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

HOT IH YAIH. { 

Then cheerly to your work again, ^ 

With hearts new braced and set ' 

To run untired love’s blessed race, , 

As meet for those who face to face 
Over the grave their Lord have met. 

Keble. 

That dying request* could not but be held sacred, and 
overtures were made to Griffith, who returned an odd sort ^ 
of answer, friendly and affectionate, but rather as if my j 
father were the offending party in need of forgiveness. He } 
and his wife were obliged for the invitation, but could not | 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


193 


accept it, as they had taken a house near Melton Mowbray 
for the hunting-season, and were entertaining friends. 

In some ways it was disappointing, in others it was a re- 
lief, not to have the restraint of Lady Peacock^s presence 
during the last days we were to have with the Fordyces. 
For a fresh loss came upon us. Beach-harbor was a fishing- 
village on the north-western coast, which, within the pre- 
vious decade, had sprung into importance, on the one hand 
as a fashionable resort, on the other as a minor port for 
colliers. The living was wretchedly poor, and had been 
held for many years by one of the old inferior stamp of 
clergy, scarcely superior in habits or breeding to the farm- 
ers, and only outliving the scandals of his youth to fall into 
a state of indolent carelessness. It was in the gift of a 
child, for wLom Sir Horace Lester was trustee, and that 
gentleman had written about a fortnight before Ellen^s 
death, to consult Mr. Fordyce on its disposal, declaring the 
great difiiculties and deficiencies of lue place, which made 
it impossible to offer it to any one without considerable 
private means, and also able to attract and improve the ut- 
terly demoralized population. He ended, almost in joke, 
by saying, ‘‘ In fact, I know no one who could cope with 
the situation but yourself; I wish you could find me your 
own counterpart, or come yourself in earnest. It is j ust the 
air that suits my sister — bracing sea-breezes; the parsonage, 
though a wretched place, is well situated and she would be 
all the stronger; but in poor Ellen’s state there is no use 
in talking of it, and besides I know you are wedded to your 
fertile fields and Somersetshire clowns.” 

That letter (afterward shown to us) had worked on Mr. 
Fordyce ’s mind during those mournful days. He w^as still 
young enough to leave behind him Parson Frank and the 
squarson ” habits of Hillside in which he had grown up: 
and the higher and mare spiritual side of his nature had 
been fostered by the impressions of the last year. He was 
conscious, as he said, that his talk had been overmuch of 
bullocks, and that his farm had engrossed him more than 
he wdshed should happen again, though a change would be 
tearing himself up by the roots; and as to his own people 
at Hillside, the curate, an active young man, had well sup- 
plied his place, and, in his truly humble opinion, though 
by no means in theirs, introduced several improvements 
even in that model i^arish. 


194 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


What had moved him most, however, was a conversation 
he liad liad with Ellen, with whom during this last year he 
had often held deep and serious counsel, with a growing 
reverence on his side. He had read her uncle’s letter to 
her, and to his great surprise found that she looked on it as 
a call. Devotedly fond as she herself was of Hillside, she 
could see that her father’s abilities were wasted on so small 
a field, in a manner scarcely good for himself, and she had 
been struck with the greater force of his sermons when 
preaching to educated congregations abroad. If no one else 
could or would take efficient charge of these Beach-harbor 
souls, she could see that it would weigh on his conscience 
to take comparative ease in his own beloved meadows, 
among a flock almost his vassals. Moreover, she relieved 
his mind about her mother. She had discovered, what the | 
good wife kept out of sight, that the north-country woman j 
never could entirely have affinities with the south, and she j 
had come to the conclusion that Mrs. Fordyce’s spirits ' 
would be heavily tried by settling down at Hillside in the : 
altered state of things. 

After this talk, Mr. Fordyce had suggested a possible in- ' 
cumbent to his brother-in-law, but left the matter open; 
and when Sir Horace came down to the funeral, it was more 
thoroughly discussed; and, as soon as Mrs. Fordyce saw 
that departure would not break her husband’s heart, she 
made no secret of the way that both her opinion and her 
inclinations lay. She told my mother that she had always 
believed her own ill-health was caused by the southern cli- 
mate, and that she hoped that Anne would grow up 
stronger than her sister in the northern breezes. : 

Poor little Anne! Of all the family, to her the change ' 
was the greatest grief. The tour on the Continent had been 
a dull affair to her; she was of the age to weary of long * 
confinement in the carriage and in strange hotels, and too 
young to appreciate ‘‘ grown-up ” Sghts. Picture-galleries . 
and cathedrals were only a drag to her, and if the experi- / 
ences that were put into Rosella’s mouth for the benefit of > 
her un traveled sisters could have been written down, they / 
would have been as unconventional as Mark Twain’s ad- v 
ventures. Rosella went through the whole tour, and left a { 
leg behind in the hinge of a door, but in compensation 
brought home a Paris bonnet and mantle. She seemed to ; 
have been her young mistress’s chief comfort next to an oc- . " 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


195 


casional game of play with her father, or a walk, looking 
in at the shop windows and watching marionettes, or, still 
better, the wonderful sports of brown-legged street chil- 
dren, without trying to make her speak French or Italian — 
in her eyes one of the inflictions of the journey, in those of 
her elders the one benefit she might gain. She had missed 
the petting to which she had been accustomed from her 
grandfather and from all of us; and she had absolutely 
counted the days till she could get home again, and had 
fallen into dire disgrace for fits of crying when Ellen^s 
weakness caused delays. Martyn^s holidays had been a 
time of rapture to her, for there was no one to attend much 
to her at home, and she was too young to enter into the 
weight of anxiety; so the two had run as wild together as a 
gracious well-trained damsel of ten and a fourteen-year-old 
boy with tender chivalry awake in him could well do. To 
be out of the way was all that was asked of her for the 
time, and all old delights, such as the robbers^ cave, were 
renewed with fresh zest. 

“ It was the sweetest and the last.” 

And though Martyn was gone back to school, the child felt 
the wrench from home most severely. As she told me on 
one of those sorrowful days, ‘‘ She did think she had come 
back to live at dear, dear little Hillside all the days of her 
life.'’^ Poor child, we became convinced that this vehement 
attachment to Griflith^s brothers was one factor in Mrs. 
Fordyce^s desire to make a change that should break off 
these habits of intimacy and dependence. 

Pluralities had not become illegal, and Frank Fordyce, 
being still the chief land-holder in Hillside, and wishing to 
keep up his connection with his people, did not resign the 
rectory, though he put the curate into the house, and let 
the farm. Once or twice a year he came to fulfill some of 
a landlord's duties, and was as genial and affectionate as 
ever, but more and more absorbed in the needs of Beach- 
harbor, and unconsciously showing his own growth in devo- 
tion and activity; while he brought his splendid health^and 
vigor, hjs talent, his wealth, and, above all, his winning 
charm of manner and address, to that magnificent work at 
Beach-harbor, well known to all of you; though, perhaps, you 
never guessed that the foundation of all those churclies and 
their grand dependent works of jiiety, mercy, and benefi- 


196 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


cence was laid in one young girrs grave. I never heard of 
a fresh achievement there without remembering how the 
funeral psalm ends with — 

‘ ‘ Prosper Thou the work of our hands upon us, 

O prosper thou our handiwork,” 

And Emily? Her drooping after the loss of her friend was 
sad, but it would have been sadder but for the spirit Ellen 
had infused. We found the herbs to heal our woe round 
our pathway, though the first joyousness of life had de- 
parted. The reports Mr. Henderson and the Hillside curate 
brought from Oxford were great excitements to us, and we 
thought and puzzled over church doctrine, arwd tried to im- 
part it to our scholars. We, I say, for Henderson had 
made me take a lads^ class, which has been the chief inter- 
est of my^hfe. Even the roughest were good to their help- 
less teacher, and some men, as gray-headed as myself, still 
come every Sunday to read with Mr. Edward, and are 
among the most faithful friends of my life. 


CHAPTEE XXXV. 

GEIEF^S BIED. 

Shall such mean little creatures pretend to the fashion? 

Cousin Turkey Cock, well may you be in a passion. 

The Peacock at Home. 

It was not till the second Christmas after dear Ellen 
Eordyce^s death that my eldest brother brought his wife 
and child to Chantry House, after an urgent letter to Lady 
Peacock from my mother, who yearned for a sight of 
Griffith's boy. 

I do not wish to dwell on that visit. Selina, or Griffis 
bird, as Marty n chose to term her, was certainly handsome 
and stylish; but her complexion had lost freshness and deli- 
cacy, and the ladies said her color was rouge, and her fine 
figure due to other female mysteries. She meant to be 
very gracious, and patronized everybody, especially Emily, 
who, she said, would be quite striking if not sacrified 
her dress, and whom she much wished to take to London, 
engaging to provide her with a husband before the season 
was over, not for a moment believing my mother^s assur- 
ance that it would be a trial to us all whenever we had to 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


197 


resign oiir Emily. Nay, she tried to condole with the poor 
moped family slave, and was received with such hot indig- 
nation as made her laugh, for, to do her justice, she was 
good-natured and easy-tempered. However, I saw less of 
her than did the others, for I believe she thought the sight 
of me made her ill. Griff, poor old fellow, was heartily 
glad to be with us again, but quite under her dominion. 
He had lost his glow of youth and grace of figure, his com- 
plexion had reddened, and no one would have guessed him 
only a year older than Clarence, whose shoulders did indeed 
reveal something of the desk, but whose features, though 
—pale, were still fair and youthful. The boy was another 
Clarence, not so much in compliment to his godfather as 
because it was the most elegant name in the family, and 
favored an interesting belief, current among his mother’s 
friends, that the king had actually stood sponsor to the 
uncle. Poor little man, his grandmother shut herself into 
the book-room and cried, after her first sight of him. He 
was a wretched, pinched morsel of humanity, though 
mamma and Emily detected wonderful resemblances; 1 
never saw them, but then he inherited his mother’s repul- 
sion toward me, and roared doubly at the sight of me. My 
mother held that he was the victim of Selina’s dissipations, 
and mismanagement of herself and him, and gave many 
matronly groans at his • treatment by the smart, flighty 
nurse, who waged one continual warfare with the house- 
hold. 

Accustomed to absolute supremacy in domestic matters, 
it was very hard for my mother to have her counsels and 
experience set at naught, and, if she appealed to Griff, to 
find her notions treated with the polite deference he might 
have shown to a cottage dame. 

A course of dinner-parties could not hinder her ladyship 
from finding Chantry House insufferably dull, ‘‘ always like 
Sunday;” and, when she found that we were given to 
Saints’ -day services, her pity and astonishment knew no 
bounds. “ It was all very well for a poor object like Ed- 
ward,” she held, ‘‘but as to Mr. AVinslow and Clarence, 
did they go for the sake of example? Though, to be sure, 
Clarence might be a Papist any day. ” 

Popery, instead of Methodism, was just beginning to be 
the bugbear set up for those whom the world held to be 
ultra-religious, and my mother was so far disturbed at our 


198 


CHANTKY HOUSE. 


interest in what was termed Oxford theology that the warn- 
ing would have alarmed her if it had come from any other 
(juarter. However, Lady Peacock was rather fond of 
Clarence, and entertained him with schemes for improving 
Chantry House when it should have descended to Griffith. 
The mullion rooms were her special aversion, and were all 
to he swept away, together with the vaultings and the ruin 
^ — “enough to give one the blues, if there were nothing 
else./^ she averred. 

We really felt it to the credit of our country that Sir 
George Eastwood sent an invitation to an early dance to 
please his young daughters; and for this our visitors pro- 
longed their slay. My mother made Clarence go, that she 
might have some one to take care of her and Emily, since 
Grilf was sure to be absorbed by his lady. Emily had not 
been to a ball since those gay days in London with Ellen. 
She shrunk back from the contrast, and would have begged 
oft; but she was told that she must submit; and though 
she said she felt immeasurably older than at that happy 
time, I believe she was not above being pleased with the 
pale pink satin dress and wreath of white jasmine, which 
my father presented to her, and in which, according to 
Martyn, she beat “ Griffis bird all to shivers. 

Clarence had grown much less basliful and embarrassed 
since the Tooke affair had given liim a kind of position and 
a sense of not being a general disgrace. He really was 
younger in some ways at five-and-twenty than at eighteen; 
lie enjoyed dancing, and esjjecially enjoyed the compliments 
upon our sister, whom in our usual fashion we viewed as 
the belle of the ball. He was standing by my fire, telling 
me the various humors of the night, when a succession of 
shrieks ran through the house. He dashed away to see 
what was the matter, and returned, in a few seconds, say- 
ing that Selina had seen some one in the garden, and neither 
she nor mamma would be satisfied without examination — 
“ though, of course, I know what it must be,^^ he added, 
as he drew on his coat. 

“ Bill, you are coming?^^ said Griff, at the door. “ You 
iieednT, if you donT like it. I bet it is your old friend. 

“ I^m coming! I^m coming! I^m sure it is, ” shouted 
Martyn from behind, with the inconsistent addition, “ IVe 
got my gun.^' 

“ Enough to dispose of any amount of robbers or phan- 


CHANTKY HOUSE. 


100 


toms eitlier/’ observed Griff, as they went forth by the 
back door, re-enforccd by Amos Bell with a lantern in one 
hand and a poker in the other. 

My father was fortunately still asleep, and my mother 
came down, to see whether I was frightened. She said she 
had no patience with Selina, and had left her to Emily and 
her maid; but, before many words had been spoken, they 
all came creeping down after her, feeling safety in num- 
bers, or perhaps in her entire fearlessness. The report of 
a gun gave us all a shock, and elicited another scream or 
two. My mother, hoping that no one was hurt, hastened 
into the hall, but only to meet Griff, hurrying in laughing 
to reassure us with the tidings that it was only Martyn, who 
liad shot the old sun-dial by way of a robber; and he was 
presently followed by the others, Martyn rather crest-fallen , 
but arguing with all his might that the sun-dial was exactly 
like a man;' and my mother hurried every one off upstairs 
without further discussion. 

Clarence was rather white, and when Martyn demanded. 
Do you really think it was the ghost? Fancy her selec- 
tion of the birdl^^ he gravely answered, Martyn boy, if it 
were, it is not a thing to speak of in thiit tone. Y ou had 
better go to bed. 

Mart3rn went off, somewhat awed. Clarence was cold 
and shivering, and stood warming himself. He was going 
to wind up his watch, but his hand shook, and I did it for 
him, noting the hour — twenty minutes past one. 

It appeared that Selina, on going upstairs, recollected 
that she had left her purse in Griffis sitting-room, before 
going to dress, and had gone in quest of it. She heard 
strange shouts and screams outside, and, going to one of 
the old windows, where the shutters were less unmanagea- 
ble than elsewhere, she beheld a woman rushing toward the 
house pursued By at least a oouple of men. Filled with 
terror she had called out, and nearly fainted in Griffis arms. 

“ It agrees with all we have heard before, said Clar- 
ence, the very day and hour!’^ 

As Martyn said, the person is strange.’-’ 

‘‘ Villagers, less concerned, have seen the like,” he said; 

‘‘ and, indeed, all unconsciously poor Selina has cut away 
the hope of redress,” he sighed. “Poor restless spirit! 
would that I could do anything for her. ” 

“ Let me ask, do you ever see her now?” 


900 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


‘‘ N — no, I suppose not; but whenever I am anxious or 
worried, the trouble takes her form in my dreams. 

Lady Peacock had soon extracted the ghost story from 
her husband, and, though she professed to be above the vul- 
gar folly of belief in it, her nerves were so upset, she said, 
that nothing would have induced her to sleep another night 
in the house. The rational theory on this occasion was that 
one of the maids must have stolen out to join in the Christ- 
mas entertainment at the Winslow Arms, and been pursued 
home by some tipsy revelers; but this explanation was not 
productive of good-will between the mother and daughter- 
in-law, since mamma had from the first so entirely suspect- 
ed Selina^s smart nurse as actually to have gone straight to 
the nursery on the plea of seeing whether the baby had 
been frightened. The woman was found asleep — apparently 
so — said my mother, but all her clothes were in an untidy 
- heap on the floor, which to my mother was proof conclusive 
that she had slipped into the house in the confusion, and 
settled herself there. Had not my mother with her own 
eyes watched from the window her flirtations with the gar- 
dener, and was more evidence requisite to convict her? 
Mamma entertained the hope that her proposal would be 
adopted of herself taking charge of her grandson, and fat- 
tening his poor little cheeks on our cowl’s milk, while the 
rest of the party continued their round of visits. 

Lady Peacock, however, treated it as a personal imputa- 
tion that her nurse should be accused instead of any servant 
of Mrs. Winslow ^s own, though, as Griff observed, not only 
character, but years and features might alike acquit them 
of any such doings; but even he could not laugh long, for 
it was no small vexation to him that such offense should 
have arisen between his mother and wife. Of course there 
.was no open quarrel — my mother had far too much dignity 
to allow it to come to that — but each said in private bitter 
'things of the other, and my lady^s manner of declining to 
leave her baby at Chantry "House was almost offensive. 

: Poor Griffith, who had been growing more like himself 
every day, tried in vain to smooth matters, and would have 
been very glad to leave his child to my mother ^s manage- 
ment, though, of course, he acquitted the nurse of the mid- 
night 'adventure. He privately owned to us that he had no 
opinion of the woman, but he defended her to my motlier, 
in whose eyes this was tantamount to accusing her own re- 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 201 

spectable maids, since it was incredible that any rational 
person could accept the phantom theory. 

Gladly would he have been on better terms, for he had 
had to confess that his wife’s fortune had turned out to be 
much less than common report had stated, or than her style 
of living justified, and that his marriage had involved him 
in a sea of difficulties, so that he had to beg for a larger 
allowance, and for assistance in paying off debts. 

The surrender of the London house and of some of the 
chief expenses were made conditions of such favors, and 
GriflSth had assented gratefully when alone with his father; 
but after an interview with his wife, demonstrations were 
made that it was highly economical to have a house in town, 
and horses, carriages, and servants, and that any change 
would be highly derogatory to the heir of Earlscombe and 
the sacred wishes of the late Sir Henry Peacock. 

In fact, it was impressed on us that we were mere home- 
ly, countrified beings, who could not presume to dictate to 
her ladyship, but who had ill requited her condescension in 
deigning to beam upon us. 


CHAPTER XXXti. 

SLACK WATER. 

O dinna look, ye prideful queen, on a’ aneath your ken, 

For he wha seems the farthest hnt aft wins the farthest ben, 

And whiles the double of the schule tak’s lead of a’ the rest: 
The birdie sure to sing is the gorbal of the nest. 

The cauld, gray, misty morn aft brings a sunny summer day; 
The tree wha’s buds are latest is longest to decay; 

The heart sair tried wi’ sorrow still endures the sternest test: 
The birdie sure to sing is the gorbal of the nest. 

The wee wee stern that glints in heaven may be a lowin’ sim, 
Though like a speck of light it seem amid the welkin dun; 

The humblest sodger on the field may win a warrior’s crest: 

The birdie sure to sing is the gorbal of the nest. 

Scotch Newspaper. 

The wickedness of the nurse was confirmed in my 
mother’s eyes when the doom on the first-born of the "W in- 
slows was fulfilled, and the poor little baby, Clarence, suc- 
cumbed to a cold on the chest caught while his nurse was 
gossiping with a guardsman. 


202 


CHAis^TRY HOUSE. 


He was buried in London. “ It was better for Selina to 
get those things over as quickly as possible," said Griff; but 
Clarence saw that he suffered much more than liis wife 
would let him show to her. “ It is so bad for him to dwell 
on it,” she said. You see, I never let myself give way."" 

And she was soon going out, nearly as usual, till their one 
other infant came to open its eyes only for a few hours on 
this troublesome world, and owe its baptism to 01arence"s 
exertions. My mother, who was in London just after, at- 
tending on the good old admiral’s last illness, was greatly 
grieved and disgusted with all she heard and saw of the 
young pair, and that was not much. She felt their disre- 

f ard of her uncle as heartless, or rather as insulting, on 
elina’s part, and weak on Griff’s; and on all sides she 
heard of their reckless extravagance, which made her fore- 
bode the worst. 

All these disappointments much diminished my father’s 
pleasure and interest in his inheritance. He had little 
heart to build and improve, when his eldest son’s wife 
made no secret of her hatred to the place, or to begin under- 
takings only to be neglected by those who came after; and 
thus several favorite schemes were dropped, or prevented 
by Griffith’s applications for advances. 

At last there was a crisis. At the end of the second sea- 
son after their visit to us, Clarence sent a hasty note, beg- 
ging my father to join him in averting an execution in 
Griffith's house. I can not record the particulars, for just 
at that time I had a long low fe\ er, and did not touch my 
diary for many weeks; nor indeed did I know much about 
the circumstances, since my good nurses withheld as much 
as possible, and would not let me talk about what they be- 
lieved to make me worse. Nor can I find any letters about 
it. I believe they were all made away with long ago, and 
thus I only know that my father hurried up to town, re- 
mained for a fortnight, and came back looking ten years 
older. The house in London had been given up, and he 
had offered a vacant one of our own, near home, to Griff 
to retrench in, but Selina would not hear of it, insistmg on 
going abroad. 

This was a great grief to him and to us all. There was 
only one side of our lives that was not saddened. Our old 
incumbent had died about six months after the Fordyces 
had gone, and Mr, Henderson had gladly accepted the liv- 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


203 


ing vvliere the parsonage had been built. The lady to whom 
he had been so long engaged Avas a great acquisition. Her 
home had been at Oxford; and she was as thoroughly im- 
bued with the spirit that there prevailed as was the Hillside 
curate. She talked to us of Littlemore, and of the ser- 
mons there and at St. Mary^s, and Emily and I shared to 
the full her hero-worship. It was the nearest compensa- 
tion my sister had had for the loss of Ellen, with this dif- 
ference, that Mrs. Henderson was older, had read more, 
and had conversed thoughtfully with some of the leading 
spirits in religious thought, so that she opened a new world 
to us. 

People would hardly believe in our eagerness and enthusi- 
asm over the revelations of church doctrine; how we de- 
bated, consulted our books, and corresponded with Clarence 
over what now seems so trite; how we viewed the ‘‘ British 
Critic and Tracts for the Times as our oracles, and 
worried the poor Wattlesea book-seller to get them for us 
at the first possible moment. 

Church restoration was setting in. Henderson had al- 
ways objected to christening from a slop-basin on the altar, 
and had routed out a dilapidated font; and now one, which 
was termed by the country paper chaste and elegant, was 
by united eiforts, in which Clarence had the lion^s share, 
presented in time for the christening of the first child at 
the parsonage. It is that Avhich was sent off to the Mission 
Chapel as a blot on the rest of Earlscombe Church. Yet 
what an achievement it was deemed at the time! 

The same may be said of most of our doings at that era. 
We effected them gradually, and have ever since been 
undoing them, as our architectural and ecclesiastical per- 
ceptions have advanced. I wonder how the next generation 
will deal with our alabaster reredos and our stained win- 
dows, with which we are all as well pleased as we Avere fifty 
years ago with the plain red cross Avith a target-like ar- 
rangement above and below it in the east window, or as 
poor Margaret may have been with her livery altar-cloth. 
Indeed, it seems to me that Ave got more delight out of our 
very imperfect work, designed by ourselves and sent to 
Clarence to be executed by men in back streets in London, 
costing an immensity of trouble, than can be had now by 
simply choosing out of a book of figures of cut-and-dried 
articles. 


204 


CHAKTItY HOI^SE. 


What an enthusiastic description Clarence sent of the 
illuminated commandments in the new Church of St. 
Katharine in the Eegent^s Park! How Emily and I gloat- 
ed over the imitation of them when we replaced the hideous 
old tables, and how exquisite we thought the initial I, 
which irreverent youngsters have likened, with some jus- 
tice, to an enormous overfed caterpillar, en wreathed with 
red and green cabbage-leaves! 

My mother was startled at these innovations; but my 
father, who had kept abreast with the thought of the day, 
owned to the doctrines as chiming in with his unbroken be- 
lief, and transferred to the improvements in the church the 
interest which he had lost in the estate. The farmers had 
given up their distrust ^of him, and accepted him loyally as 
friend and landlord, submitting to the reseating of the 
church, and only growling moderately at decorations that 
cost them nothing. Daily service began as soon as Hen- 
derson was his own master, and was better, at tended than it 
is now; for the old people to whom it was a novelty took 
up the habit more freely than their successors, to whom the 
bell has been familiar through their days of toil. W'e were 
too far off to be constant attendants; but even-song made 
an object for our airings, and my father’s head, now quite 
white, was often seen there. He felt it a great relief amid 
the cares of his later years. 

Perhaps it was with a view to him that Mr. Castleford 
arranged that Clarence should become manager for the 
firm at Bristol, with a good salary. The Eobsons would 
not take a fresh lodger — they were getting too old for fresh 
beginnings; bnt they kept their rooms ready for him, when- 
ever he had to be in town, and Gooch found him a trust- 
worthy widow as housekeeper. He took a little cottage at 
Clifton, availing himself of the coach to spend his Sundays 
with us; and it was an acknowledged joy to every one that 
I should drive to meet liini every Saturday afternoon at 
the Carpenter’s Arms, and bring him home to be my 
father’s aid in all his business, and a most valuable help in 
Sunday parish work, in which he had an amount of ex- 
perience which astonished us. 

What would have become of the smging without him? 
The first hint against the remarkable anthems had long 
ago alienated our tuneful choir placed on high, and they 
had deserted en masse. Then Emily and the school-mis- 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


205 


tress had toiled at the school children, whose thin little 
pipes and provincialisms were a painful infliction, till Mrs. 
Henderson, backed by Clarence, worked up a few promis- 
ing men^s voices to support them. We thought every- 
thing but the New and Old Versions smacked of dissent, 
except the hymns at the end of the Prayer-book, though we 
did not go as far as Chapman, who told Emily he under- 
stood as how all the tunes was tried over in Doctor ^s Com- 
mons afore they were sent out, and it was not “ liable to 
change tl^m. One of Clarence ^s amusements in his lonely 
life had been the acquisition of a knowledge of music, and 
he had a really good voice; while his adherence to our choir 
encouraged other young men of the farmer and artisan 
class to join us. Choir, however, did not mean surplices 
and cassocks, but a collection of our best voices, male and 
female, in the gallery. 

Martyn began to be a great help when at home, never 
having wavered in his purpose of becoming a clergyman. 
On going to Oxford, he became imbued with the influences 
that m^e Alma Mater the focus of the religious life and 
progress of that generation which is now the elder one. 
There might in some be unreality, in others extravagance, 
in others mere imitation; but there was a truly great work 
on the minds of the young men of that era — a work which 
has stood the test of time, made saints and martyrs, and 
sown the seed whereof we have witnessed a goodly growth, 
in spite of cruel shocks and disappointments, fightings 
within and fears without, slanders and follies to provoke 
them, such as we can now afford to laugh over. With Mar- 
tyn, rubrical or extra-rubrical observances were the outlet 
of the exuberance of youth, as chivalry and romance had 
been to us; and on Frank Fordyce^s visits, it was delight- 
ful to find that he too was in the full swing of these ideas 
and habits, partly from his own convictions, partly from 
his parish needs, and partly carried along by curates fresh 
from Oxford. 

In the first of his summer vacations Martyn joined a read- 
ing-party, with a tutor of the same caliber, and assured 
them that if they took up their quarters in a farm-house 
not many miles by the map from Beach-harbor, they would 
have access to unlimited services, with the extraordinary 
luxury of a surpliced choir, and intercourse with congenial 
si^irits, which to him meant the Fordyces. 


206 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


On arriving, however, the bay proved to be so rocky and 
dangerous that there was no boating across it, as he had 
confidently expected. The farm depended on a market 
town in the opposite direction, and though the lights of 
Beach-harbor could be seen at night, there was no way 
thither except by a six-mile walk along a cliff path, with a 
considerable detour in order to reach a bridge and cross the 
rapid river which was an element of danger in the bay, on 
the north side of the promontory which sheltered the har- 
bor to the south. 

So when Martyn started as pioneer on the morning be- 
fore the others arrived, he descended into Beach-harbor later 
than he intended, but still he was in time to meet Anne 
Fordyce, a tall, bright-faced girl of fourteen, taking ^her 
after-lessons turn on the parade with a governess, who 
looked amazed as the two met, holding out both hands to 
one another, with eager joy and welcome. 

It was not the same when Anne flew into the vicarage 
with the rapturous announcement, “Here’s Martyn!” 
The vicar was gone to a clerical meeting, and Mrs. Fordyce 
said nothing about staying to see him. The luncheon was 
a necessity, but with quiet courtesy Martyn was made to 
understand that he was regarded as practically out of reach, 
and “ Oh, mamma, he could come and sleep,” was nipped 
in the utterance by “ Martyn is busy with his studies; we 
must not disturb him. ” This was a sufficient intimation 
that Mrs. Fordyce did not intend to have the pupils drop- 
ping in on her continually, and making her house their 
resort; and while Martyn was digesting the rebuff, the gov- 
erness carried Anne off to prepare for a music-lesson, and 
her mother gave no encouragement to lingering or repeat- 
ing the visit. 

Still Martyn, on his way homeward, based many hopes 
on the return of Mr. Fordyce; but all that ensued was, 
three weeks later, a note regretting the not having been 
able to call, and inviting the whole party to a great school- 
feast on the anniversary of the dedication of the first of the 
numerous new churches of Beach-harbor. There was no 
want of cordiality on that occasion, but time was lacking 
for anything beyond greetings and fleeting exchanges of 
words. Parson Frank tried to talk to Martyn, bemoaned 
the not seeing more of him, declared his intentions of com- 
ing to the farm, began an invitation, but was called off a 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


207 


hundred ways; and Anne was rushing about with all the 
children of the place, gentle and simple, on her hands. 
Whenever Martyn tried to help her, he was called off some 
other way, and engaged at last in the hopeless task of teach- 
ing cricket where these fisher boys had never heard of it. 

That was all he saw of our old friends, and he was much 
hurt by such ingratitude. So were we all, and though we 
soon acquitted the head of the family of more than the for- 
getfulness of over-occupation, the soreness at his wife^s 
coldness was not so soon passed over. Yet from her own 
point of view, poor woman, she might be excused for a 
panic lest her second daughter might go the way of the 
first. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

OUTWARD BOUND. 

As slow our ship her foamy track 
Against the wind was cleaving, 

Her trembling pennant still looked back 
To the dark isle ’twas leaving. 

So loath we part from all we love, 

From all the links that bind us, 

So turn our hearts as on wq rove 
To those we’ve left behind us. 

T. Moore. 

The first time I saw Clarence ^s menage was in that same 
summer of poor Martyn^s repulse. My father had come in 
for a small property in his original county^ of Shropshire, 
and this led to his setting forth with my mother to make 
necessary arrangements, and then to pay visits to old 
friends; leaving Emily and me to be guests to our brother 
at Clifton. 

We told them it was their harvest honey-moon, and it was 
funny to see how they enjoyed the scheme when they had 
once made up their minds to it, and our share in the proj- 
ect was equally new and charming, for Emily and I, 
though both some way on in our twenties, were still in 
many respects home children, nor had I ever been out on a 
visit on my own account. The yellow chariot began by 
conveying Emily and me to our destination. 

Clifton has grown considerably since those days, and ter- 
races have swallowed up the site of what the post-office 


308 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


knew as Prospect Cottage, but we were apt to term tlie 
dolPs house, for, as Emily said, our visit there had some- 
thing the same effect as a picnic or tea-drinking at little 
Anne^s famous baby-house. In like manner, it was tiny, 
square, with one sash-window on each side of the door, but 
it was nearly covered with creepers, odds and ends which 
Clarence brought from home, and induced to flourish and 
take root better than their parent stocks. In his nursery 
days his precision had given him the name of ‘‘ the old 
bachelor, and he had all a sailor ^s tidiness. Even his 
black cat and brown spaniel each had its peculiar basket 
and mat, and had been taught never to transgress their 
bounds or interfere with one another; and the effect of his 
parlor, embellished as it was in our honor, was delightful. 
The outlook was across the beautiful ravine, into the 
wooded slopes on the further side, and, on the other side, 
down the widening cleft to that giddy marvel, the suspen- 
sion bridge, with vessels passing under it, and the expanse 
beyond. 

Most entirely we enjoyed ourselves, making merry over 
Clarence^s housekeeping, employing ourselves after our 
wonted semi-student, semi-artist fashion in the morning; 
and, when our host came home from business, starting on 
country expeditions, taking a carriage whenever the dis- 
tance exceeded Emily^s powers of walking beside my chair; 
sketching, botanizing, or investigating church architecture, 
our newest hobby. I sketched, and the other two rambled 
about, measuring and Ailing up archaeological papers, with 
details of orientation, style, and all the rest, deploring bar- 
barisms and dilapidations, making curious and delightful 
discoveries, pitying those who thought the dun cow’s rib 
and Chatterton’s loft the most interesting features of St. 
Mary’s Eedcliff, and above all rubbing brasses with heel 
ball, and hanging up their grim effigies wherever there was 
a vacant space on the walls of our doll’s house. 

And though we grumbled when Clarence was detained at 
the office later than we expected, this was qualified by pride 
at feeling his importance there as a man in authority. It 
was, however, with much dismay and some inhospitality 
that we learned that a young man belonging to the office — 
in fact, Mr. Frith’s great-nephew — was coming to sail for 
Canton in one of the vessels belonging to the firm, and 
would have to be ‘‘ looked after.” He could not be asked 


CHAIs^TRY HOUSE. 


209 


to sleep at Prospect Cottage, for Emily liacl the only spare 
bed-chamber, and Clarence had squeezed himself into a 
queer little dressing-closet to give .me hi^ room; but the 
housekeeper (a treasure found by Gooch) secured an apart- 
ment in the next house, and we were to act hosts, much 
against our will. Clarence had barely seen the youth, who 
had been employed in the office at Liverpool, living with 
his mother, who was in ill-health and had died in the last 
spring. The only time of seeing him, he had seemed to be 
a very shy, raw lad; but, “poor fellow, we can make the 
best of him,^^was the sentiment; “it is only for one 
night. However, we were dismayed when, as Emily was 
in the crisis of washing-in a sky, it was announced that a 
gentleman was asking for Mr. Winslow. Churlishness bade 
us dispatch him to the office, but humanity prevailed to in- 
vite him previously to share our luncheon. Yet we doubted 
whether it had not been a cruel mercy when he entered, 
evidently unprepared to stumble on a young lady and a de- 
formed man, and stammering piteously as he hoped there 
was no mistake — Mr. Winslow — Prospect, etc. 

Emily explained, frustrating his desire to flee at once to 
the office, and pointing out his lodging, close at hand, 
whence he was invited to return in a few minutes to the 
meal. 

We had time for some amiable exclamations, “ The 
oaf!^^ “ What a bore!'’^ “ He has spoiled my sky!^^ “ I 
shaffiT finish this to-day “ Shall we order a carriage 
and take him to the office; we canT have him on our hands 
all the afternoon. “ And we might get the new number 
of ‘ Nicholas Nickleby.-’ ’’ 

N.B. — Perhaps it was “Oliver Twist, or “ The Old 
Curiosity Shop — I am not certain which was the current 
excitement just then; but I am quite sure it was Mrs. Nickle- 
by who first disclosed to us that our guest had a splendid pair 
of dark eyes. Hitherto he had kept them averted in the 
studious manner I have often noticed in persons who did 
not wish to excite suspicion of staring at my peculiarities; 
but that lady^s feelings when her neighbor's legs came 
down her chimney were too much for his self-consciousness, 
and he gave a glance that disclosed dark liquid depths, 
sparkling with mirth. He was one number in advance of 
us, and could enlighten us on the next stage in the coming 
story; and this went far to reconcile us to the invasion, and 


210 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


to restore him to the proper use of his legs and arms — and 
very shapely limbs they were, for he was a slim, well-made 
fellow, with a dark. gypsy complexion, and intelligent, 
honest face, altogether better than we expected. 

Yet we could have groaned when in the evening, Clar- 
ence brought him back with tidings that something had 
gone wrong with the ship. If I tried to explain, I might 
be twitted with, 

“ The bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes.” 

But of course Clarence knew all about it, and he thought it 
unlikely that the vessel would be in sailing condition for a 
week at soonest. Great was our dismay! Getting through 
one evening by the help of walking and then singing was^ 
one thing, having the heart of our visit consumed by an in- 
terloper was another; though Clarence undertook to take 
him to the office and find some occupation for him that 
might keep him out of our way. But it was Clarence^s 
leisure hours that we begrudged; though truly no one 
could be meeker than this unlucky Lawrence Frith, nor 
more conscious of being an insufferable burden. I even 
detected a tear in his eye when Clarence and Emily were 
singing “ Sweet Home.^^ 

Do you know,’^ said Clarence, on the second evening, 
when his guest had gone to dress for dinner, “ I am very 
sorry for that poor lad. It is only six weeks since he lost 
his mother, and he has not a soul to care for him, either 
here or where he is going. I had fancied the family were 
under a cloud, but I find it was only that old Frith quar- 
reled with the father for taking Holy Orders instead of go- 
ing into our house. Probably there was some imprudence; 
for the poor man died a curate and left no provision for 
his family. The only help the old man would give was to 
take the boy into the office at Liverpool, stopping his edu- 
cation just as he was old enough to care about it. There 
were a delicate mother and two sisters then, but they are 
all gone now; scarlet fever carried off the daughters, and 
Mrs. Frith never was well again. He seems to have spent 
his time in waiting on her when off duty, and to have made 
no frie/ids except one or two contemporaries of hers; and 
his only belongings are old Frith and Mrs. Stevens, who are 
packing him off to Canton without caring a rap what be- 
comes of him. I know what Mrs. Stevens is at; she comes 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


‘^11 

up to town much oftener now, and has got her husband^s 
nephew into the office, and is trying to get everything for 
him; and that^s tlie reason she wants to keep up the old 
feud, and send this poor Lawrence off to the ends of the 
earth. 

“ Can^’t you do anything for him.^^^ asked Emily. I 
thought Mr. Frith did attend to you. 

Clarence laughed. “ I know that Mrs. Stevens hates 
me like poison ; but that is the only reason I have for sup- 
posing I might have any influence. 

And can^t you speak to Mr. Castleford?^^ 

‘‘ Set him to interfere about old Frith ^s relations! He 
would know better! Besides, the fellow is too old to get 
into any other line — four-and-twenty he says, though does 
not look it; and he is as innocent as a baby, indifferent just 
now to what becomes of him, or whither he goes; it is all 
the same to him, he says; there is no one to care for him 
anywhere, and I think he is best pleased to go where it is 
all new. And there, you see, the poor lad will be left to 
drift to destruction — mother^s darling that he has been — 
just for want of some human being to care about him, and 
hinder his getting heartless and reckless!^"’ 

Clarence ^s voice trembled, and Emily had tears in her 
eyes as she asked if absolutely nothing could be done for 
bam. Clarence meant to write to Mr. Castleford, who 
would no doubt beg the chaplain at the station to show the 
young man some kindness; also, perhaps, to the resident 
partner, whom Clarence had looked at once over his desk, 
but in his rawest and most depressed days. The only clerk 
out there, whom he knew, would, he thought, be no ele- 
ment of safety, and would not like the youth the better 
either for bringing his recommendation or bearing old 
Frith’s name. 

We were considerably softened toward our guest, though 
the next time Emily came on him he was standing in the 
hall, transfixed in contemplation of her greatest achieve- 
ment in brass-rubbing, a severe and sable knight with the 
most curly of nostrils, the stiffest and straightest of mouths, 
hair straight on his brows, pointed toes joined together be- 
low, and fingers touching over his breast. There he hung 
in triumph just within the front door, fluttering and sway- 
ing a little on his pins whenever a draught came in; and 


212 


CHAInTKY house. 


there stood Lawrence Frith, freshly aware of him, and un- 
able to repress the exclamation, “ I say! isn^t he a guy?^^ 

“ Sir Guy de Warrenne,^^ began Emily composedly; 
“ don^t you see his coat of arms? ‘ chequy argent and 
azure. ^ 

‘‘ Does your brother keep him there to scare away the 
tramps?^^ 

Emily^s countenance was a study. 

The subject of brasses was unfolded to Lawrence Frith, 
and before the end. of the week he had spent an entire day 
on his hands and knees, scrubbing away with the waxy black 
compound at a figure in the Cathedral — the ofiice-work, as 
we declared, which Clarence gave him to do. In fact he 
became so thoroughly infected, that it was a pity that he was 
going where there would be no exercise in ecclesiology — 
rather the reverse. Embarrassment on his side, and hostility 
on ours, may be said to have vanished under the influence 
of Sir Guy de Warrenne^s austere countenance. The youth 
seemed to regard ‘‘ Mr. Winslow in the light of a father, 
and to accept us as kindly beings. He ceased to contort 
his limbs in our awful presence, looked at me like as an 
ordinary person, and even ventured on giving me an arm. 
He listened with unfeigned pleasure to our music, periled 
his neck on St. VincenFs rocks in search of plants, and by 
and by took to hanging back with Emily, while Clarence 
walked on with me, to talk to her out of his full heart about 
his mother and sisters. 

Three weeks elapsed before the ‘‘ Hoang-ho was ready 
to sail, and by that time Lawrence knew that there were 
some who would -rejoice in his success, or grieve if things 
went ill with him. Clarence and I had promised him long 
home letters, and impressed on him that we should welcome 
his intelligence of himself. For verily he had made his way 
into our hearts, as a thoroughly good-hearted, affectionate 
being, yearning for something to cling to; intelligent and 
refined, though his recent cultivation had been restricted, 
soundly principled, and trained in religious feelings and 
habits, but so utterly inexperienced that there was no guess- 
ing how it might be with him when cast adrift, with no 
object save his own maintenance, and no one to take an in- 
terest in him. 

Clarence talked to liim paternally, and took him to 
second-hand shops to provide a cheap library of substantial 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


213 


reading, engaging to cater for him for the future, not 
omitting Dickens; and Emily worked at providing him 
with the small conveniences and comforts for the voyage 
that called for a woman^s hand. He v\^as so grateful that 
it was like fitting out a dear friend or younger brother. 

“ I wonder, said Clarence, as he walked by my chair on 
one of the last days, ‘‘ whether it was altogether wise to 
have this young Frith here so much, though it could hardly 
have been helped. 

To which I rejoined that it could hardly have displeased 
the uncle, and that if it did, the youth ^s welfare was worth 
annoying him for. 

‘‘ I meant something hearer home,^^ said Clarence, and 
proceeded to ask if I did not think Lawrence Frith a good 
deal smitten with Emily. 

To me it seemed an idea not worth consideration. Any 
youth, especially one who had lived so secluded a life, would 
naturally be taken by the first pleasing young woman who 
came in his way, and took a kindly interest in him; but I 
did not think Emily very susceptible, being entirely wrapped 
up in home and parish matters; and I reminded Clarence 
that she had not been loverless. She had rejected the 
Curate of Hillside; and we all saw, though she did not, that 
only her evident indifference kept Sir George Eastwood^ s 
second son from making further advances. 

Clarence was not convinced. He said he had never seen 
our sister look at either of these as she did when Lawrence 
came into the room ; and there was no denying that there 
was a soft and embellishing light on her whole countenance, 
and a fresh sweetness in her voice. But then he seemed 
such a boy as to make the notion ridiculous; and yet, on 
reckoning, it proved that their years were equal. All that 
could be hoped was that the sentiment, if it existed, would 
not discover itself before they parted, so as to open their 
eyes to the dreariness of the prospect, and cause our mother 
to think we had betrayed our trust in the care of our sister. 
As we could do nothing, we were not sorry that this was the 
last day. Clarence was to go on board with Frith, see him 
out of the river, and come back with the pilot; and we all 
drove down to the wharf together; nobody saying much by 
the way, except the few jerky remarks we brothers felt 
bound to originate and reply to. 

Emily sat very still, her head bent under her shading 


214 : 


CHANTHY HOUSE. 


bonnet — I think she was trying to keep back tears for the 
solitary exile; and Lawrence, opposite, was unable to help 
watching her with wistful eyes, which would have revealed 
all, if we had not guessed it already. It might be pre- 
sumptuous, but it made us very sorry for him. 

AVhen the moment of parting came, there was a wringing 
of hands, and ‘‘ Thank you, thank you,^'’ in a low, broken, 
heartfelt voice, and to Emily, You have made life a new 
thing to me. I shall never forget, and the showing of a 
tiny book in his waistcoat pocket. 

When the two had disappeared, Emily, no longer restrain- 
ing her tears, told me that she had exchanged Prayer- 
books with him, and they were to read the Psalms at the 
same time every day. “ I thought it might be a help to 
him,^'’ she said simply. 

Nor was there any consciousness in her talk as she related 
to me what he had told her about his mother and sisters, 1 
and his dreary sense of piteous loneliness, till we had J 
adopted him as a brother — in which capacity I trusted that 'j 
she viewed him. j 

However, Clarence had been the recipient of all the poor j 
lad^s fervent feelings for Miss Winslow, how she had been ^ 
a new revelation to his desolate spirit, and was to be the cj 
guiding-star of his life, etc., etc., all from the bottom of his 1 
heart, though he durst not dream of requital, and was to 
live, not on hope, but on memory of the angelic kindness of - i 
these three weeks. 

It was impossible not to be touched, though we strove ;; 
to be worldly-wise old bachelors, and assured one another 
that the best and most probable thing that could happen to 
Lawrence Frith would be to have his dream blown away by { 
the Atlantic breezes, and be left open to the charms of some ^ 
Chinese merchant's daughter. ^ 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

TOO LATE. 

Thus Esau-like our Father's blessing miss, 

Then wash with fruitless tears our faded crown. 

Kebt^. V 

After such a rebuff as Martyti had experienced at 
Beach-harbor, he no longer haunted its neighborhood, but 




CHANTRT HOrSE. 


2irj 


devoted tlie long vacation of the ensuing year to a walking- 
I tour in Germany, with one or two congenial spirits, who 
shared his delight in scenery, pictures, and architecture. 

By and by he wrote to Clarence from Baden Baden — 

Whom do you think I should find here but Griffith and 
his bird? I first spotted the old fellow smoking under a 
tree in the Grand Platz, but he looked so seedy and altered 
altogether that I was not sure enough of him to speak, 
especially as he showed no signs of knowing me. (He says 
it was my whiskers that stumped him.) I made inquiries 
and found that they figured as ‘ Sir Peacock and lady,^ 
but they w'ere entered all right in the book. He is taking 
the ‘ Kiir ^ — he looks as if he wanted it — and she is tak- 
ing ron^e et noir. I saw her at the salon, with her neck 
grown as long as her namesake^ s, but not as pretty, claws 
to match, thin and painted, as if the ruling passion was 
consuming her. Poor old Griff! he was glad enough to see 
me, but he is wofully shaky, and nearly came to tears when 
he asked after Ted and all at home. They had an upset of 
their carriage in Vienna last winter, and he got some twist, 
or other damage, which he thought nothing of, but it has 
never righted itself; I am sure he is very ill, and ought to 
be looked after. He has had only foreign doctoring, and 
you know he never was strong in languages. I heard of 
the medico here inquiring what precise symptom der Eng- 
lander meant by being ‘‘ down in zie mout!^^ Poor Griff is 
that, whatever else he is,- and Selina does not see it, nor 
anything else but her rouge et noir table. I am afraid he 
plays too, when he is up to it, but he canT stand much of 
the stuffiness of the place, and he respects my innocence, 
poor old beggar; so he has kept out of it, since we have 
been here. He seems glad to have me to look after him, 
but afraid to let me stay, for fear of my falling a victim to 
the place. I can’t well tell him that there is a perpetual 
warning to youth in the persons of himself and his Pea- 
cock. His mind might be vastly relieved if I were out of 
it, but scarcely his body; and I shall not leave him till I 
hear from home. Thomson says I am right. I should 
like to bring the poor old man home for advice, especially 
if my lady could be lefi behind, and by all appearances she 
would not object. Could not you come, or mamma? 
S])eak to papa about it. It is all so disgusting that I really 


216 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


could not write to him. It is enough to break one’s heart 
to see Griff when he hears about home, and Edward and 
Emily. I told him how famously you were getting on, 
and he said, “ It has been all up, up with him; all down, 
down with me,” and then he wanted me to fix my day for 
leaving Baden, as if it were a sink of infection. I fancy he 
thinks me a mere infant still, for he won’t heed a word of ^ 
advice about taking care of himself, and ivill do the most ^ 
foolish things imaginable for a man in his state, though I J 
caii^t make out what is the matter with him. I tried both J 
French and Latin with his doctor, equally in vain.” j 

There was a great consultation over this letter. Our m 
parents would fain have gone at once to Baden, but my fa- J 
ther was far from well; in fact, it was the beginning of the J 
break-up of his constitution. He had been aging ever 1 
since his disappointment in Griffith, and though he had so 1 
enjoyed his jaunt with my mother that he had. seemed re- ’I 
vived for the time, he had been visibly failing ever since the i 
winter, and my mother durst not leave him. Indeed she | 
was only too well aware that her presence was apt to inspire 1 
Selina with the spirit of contradiction, and that Clarence *; 
would have a better chance alone. He was to go up to ] 
London by the mail train, see Mr. Castleford, and cross to 1 
Ostend. ; 

A valise from the lumber-room was wanted, and at bed- * 
time he went in quest of it. He came back white and | 
shaken; and I said — ' 1 

“ You have not seen | 

“Yes, I have.” J 

“ It is not her time of year.” i 

“ Ho; I was not even thinking of ner. There was none ^ 
of the waiting, hut when I looked lip from my rummaging, 2 
there was her face as if in a window or mirror on the wall.” A 
“ Don’t dwell on it ” was all I could entreat, for' the ap- ^ 
parition at unusual times had been mentioned as a note of ' 
doom, and not only did it weigh on me, but it might send : 
Clarence off in a desponding mood. Tidings were less • 
rapid when telegraphs were not, and railways incomplete. •: 
Clarence did not reach Baden till ten days after the dispatch ■ 
of Martyn’s letter, and Griffith’s condition had in the mean- ' ■ 
time become much more serious. Low fever had set in, ' 
and he was confined to his dreary lodgings, where Martyu . • 




CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


217 


was doing his best for liim in an inexperienced, helpless sort 
of way, while Lady Peacock was at the salle, persisting in 
her belief that the ailment wns a temporary matter. Martyn 
afterward declared that he had never seen anything more 
touching than poor Griff’s look of intense rest and relief at 
Clarence’s entrance. 

On the way through London, by the assistance of Mr. 
Oastleford, Clarence had ascertained how to procure the 
best medical advice attainable, and he was linguist enough 
to be an adequate interpreter. Alas! all that was achieved 
was the discovery that between difficulties of language. 
Griff’s own indifference, and his wife’s carelessness, the in- 
jury had developed into fatal disease. An operation might 
yet save him, if he could rally enough for it, but the fever 
W'as rapidly destroying his remaining strength. Selina 
ascribed it to excitement at meeting Martyn, and indeed he 
had been subject to such attacks every autumn. Any way, 
he had no spirits nor wish for improvement. If his broth- 
ers told him he was better, he smiled and said it was like a 
condemned criminal trying to recover enough for the gal- 
lows. His only desire was to be let alone and have Clarence 
with him. He had ceased to be uneasy as to Martyn’s ex- 
posure to temptation, but he said he could hardly bear to 
watch that bright, fresh young manhood, and recollect how 
few years had passed since he had been such another, nor 
did he like to have any nurse save Clarence. His wife at 
first acquiesced, holding fast to the theory of the periodical 
autumnal fever, and then that the operation would restore 
him to health; and as her presence fretted him, and he re- 
ceived her small attentions peevishly, she persisted- in her 
usual habits, and heard with petulance his brothers’ assur- 
ances of his being in a critical condition, declaring that it 
was always thus with these fevers — he was always cross and 
low-spirited, and no one could tell what she had undergone 
with him. 

Then came days of positive paui, and nights of delirious, 
dreamy murmuring about home and all of us, more espe- 
cially Ellen Fordyce. Clarence, had no time for letters, 
and Martyn’s became a call for mamma, with the old 
childish trust in her healing and comforting powers, declar- 
ing that he would meet her at Cologne, and steer her 
through the difficulties of foreign travel. 

Hesitation was over now. My father was most anxious 

/ 


218 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


to send her, and she set forth, secure that she. could infuse 1 
life, energy, and resolution into her son, when those two 
poor boys had failed. j 

It was not, however, Martyn who met her, but his friend | 
Thomson, with the tidings that the suffering had become ] 
so severe as to prevent Martyn from leaving Baden, not ; 
only on his brother’s account, but because Lady Peacock 
had at last taken alarm, and was so uncontrollable in her 
distress that he wa§ needed to keep her out of the sick-room, i 
where her presence, poor thing, only did mischief. i 

She evidently had a certain affection for her husband; ; 
and it was the more piteous that in his present state be only ^ 
regarded her as the tempter who had ruined his life — his ) 
false Duessa, who had led him away from Una. On one '* 
unhappy evening he had been almost maddened by her in- 1 
sisting on arguing with him; he called her a hag, declared ’ 
she had been the death of his children, the death of that 
dear one — could she not let him alone now she had been ' 
the death of himself? 

When Martyn took her away, she wept bitterly, and told •* 

enough to make the misery of their life apparent, when the 

gayety was over, and regrets and recriminations set in. 'i 

However, there came a calmer interval, when the suffer- ,i 

ing passed off, but in the manner which made the German J* 

doctor intimate that hope was over. Would life last till his \ 

mother came? I 

5 

His brothers had striven from the first to awaken j 
thoughts of higher things, and turn remorse into repent- J 
ance; but every attempt resulted in strange, sad wander- ^ 
ings about Esau, the birthright, and the blessing. Indeed, J 
these might not have been entirely wanderings, for once he i 
said, “ It is better this way. Bill. You don’t know what 
you wish in trying to bring me round. Don’t be hard on ^ 
me. She drove me to it. It is all right now. The Jews 
will be disappointed.” V: 

Eor even at the crisis in London, he had concealed that 
he had raised money on post-obits, so that, had he outlived > 
my father. Chantry House would have been lost. Lady J 
Peacock’s fortune had been undermined when she married 
him; extravagance and gambling had made short work of 
the rest. i 

Why should I speak of such things here, except to mourn 


CHAlSlRy IIOL'SE. 


2h) 


over our much-loved brother, with all his fine qualities and 
powers wasted and overthrown? He clung to Clarence's 
affection, and submitted to prayers and psalms, but with- 
out response. He showed tender recollection of us all, but 
scarcely durst think of his father, and hardly appeared to 
wish to see his mother. Clarence's object soon came to be 
to obtain forgiveness for the wife, since bitterness against 
^ her seemed the great obstacle to seeking pardon, peace, or 
. hope; but each attempt only produced such bitterness 
against her, and such regrets and mourning for Ellen, as 
fearfully shook the failing frame, while he moaned forth 
complaints of the blandishments and raillery with which 
his temptress had beguiled him. Clarence tried in vain to 
turn away this idea, but nothing had any effect till he be- 
thought himself of Ellen's message, that she knew even this 
fatal act had been prompted by generosity of spirit. There 
was truth enough in it to touch Griff, but only so far as to 
cry, “ What might I not have been with her?" Still, 
there was no real softening till my mother came. He knew 
her at once, and all the old childish relations were renewed 
between them. There was little time left now, but he was 
■^wholly hers. Even Clarence was almost set aside, save 
where strength was needed, and the mother seemed to have 
equal control of spirit and body. It was she, who, scarcely 
aware of what had gone before, caused him to admit Selina. 

“ 'Tell her not to talk," he said. “ But we have each 
much to forgive one another. " 

She came in, awed and silent, and he let her kiss him, 
sit near at hand, and wait on my mother, whose coming 
had, as it were, insensibly taken the bitterness away and 
made him as a little child in her hands. He could follow 
2)rayers in which she led him, as he could not, or did not 
I- seem to do, with any one else, for he was never conscious 
of the presence of the clergyman whom Thomson hunted 
up and brought, and who prayed aloud with Martyn while 
the physical agony claimed both my mother and Clarence. 

Once Griff looked about him and called out for our fa- 
ther, then, recollecting, muttered, “ No — the birthright 
gone — no blessing." 

It grieved us much, it grieves me now, that this was his 
last distinct utterance. He looked as if the comforting re- 
plies and the appeals to the Source of all redemption did 
awaken a response, but he never spoke articulately again; 


220 


CHAKTRY . HOUSE. 




and only thirty-six hours after my mother’s arrival, all was 
over. 

Poor ISelina went into passions of hysterics and transports 
of grief, needing all the firmness of so resolute a woman as 
my mother to deal with her. She was wild in self-accusa- 
tion, and became so ill that the care of her was a not un- 
wholesome occupation for my mother, who was one of those 
with whom sorrow has little immediate outlet, and is there- 
fore the more enduring. 

She would not bring our brother’s coffin home thinking 
the agitation would be hurtful to my father, and anxious 
to get back to him as soon as possible. So Griff was buried 
at Baden, and from time to time some of us have visited 
his grave. Of course she proposed Selina’s return to Chan- 
try House with her; but Mr. Clarkson, the brother, had 
come out to the funeral, and took his sister home with him, 
certainly much to our relief, though all the sad party at 
Baden had drawn much nearer together in these latter days. 


CHAPTEE XXXIX. 

A PURPOSE. 

It then draws near the season 
Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk. 

Hamlet. 

We had really lost our Griffith long before — our bright, 
generous, warm-hearted, promising Griff, the brilliance of 
our home; but his actual death made the first breach in a 
hitherto unbroken family, and was a new and strange 
shock. It made my father absolutely an old man; and it 
also changed Marty n. His first contact with responsibility, 
suffering, and death had demolished the light-hearted boy- 
ishness which had lasted in the youngest of the family 
through all his high aspirations. Till his return to Oxford, 
his chief solace was in getting some one of us alone, going 
through all the scenes at Baden discussing his new impres- 
sions of the trials and perplexities of life, and seeking out 
passages in the books that were becoming our oracles. 
What he had admired externally before, he was grasping 
from within; nor can I describe what the Lyra Apos- 
tolica,” and the two first volumes of ‘‘ Parochial Sermons 
preached at Littlemore,” became to us. 


1 

I 


i 


►I 




CHANTRY HOUSE. 


221 


Mr. Clarkson had been rather dry with my brothers at 
Baden, evidently considering that poor Griffith had been as 
fatal to his sister as we thought Selina had been to our 
brother. It was hardly just, for there had been much 
more to spoil in him than in her; and though she would 
hardly have trocl a much higher path, there is no saying 
what he might have been but for her. 

Griffith had said nothing about providing for her, not 
having forgiven her till he was past recollecting the need, 
but her brother had intimated that something was due from 
the family, and Clarence had assented — not, indeed, as to 
her deserts, poor woman, but her claims and her needs — 
well knowing that my father would never suffer Griffis 
widow to be in want. 

He judged rightly. My father was nervously anxious to 
arrange for giving her £500 a year, in the manner most 
likely to prevent her from making away with it, and leav- 
ing herself destitute. But there had already been heavy 
pulls on his funded property, and ways and means had to 
he considered, making Clarence realize that he had become 
the heir. Somehow, there still remained, especially with 
my mother and himself, a sense of his being a failure, and 
an inferior substitute, although my father had long come 
to lean upon him, as never had been the case with our poor 
Griff. 

The first idea of raising the amount required was by sell- 
ing an outlying bit of the estate near the Wattlesea Sta- 
tion, for which an enterprising builder was making offers, 
either to purchase or take on a building lease. My father 
had received several letters on the subject, and only hesi- 
tated from a feeling against breaking up the estate, espe- 
cially if this were part of the original Chantry House prop- 
erty, and not a more recent acquisition of the AVinslows. 
Moreover, he would do nothing without Clarence ^s partici- 
pation. 

The title-deeds were not in the house, for my father liad 
had too much of the law to meddle more than he could help 
with his own affairs, and had left them in the hands of the 
family solicitor at Bristol, where Clarence was to go and 
look over them. He rejoiced in the opportunity of being 
able to see whether anything would throw light on the story 
of the mullion chamber; and the certainty that the Wat- 
tlesea property had never been part of the old endowment 


222 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


of tlie Chantry did not seem nearly so interesting as a 
packet of yellow letters tied with faded red tape. Mr. lly • 
der made no difficulty in intrusting these to him, and we 
read them by our midnight lamp. 

Clarence had seen poor Margaret’s will, bequeathing her 
entire property to her husband’s son, PhilTp Winslow, and 
had noted the date, 1705 ; also the copy of the decision in 
the Court of Probate that there was no sufficient evidence 
of entail on the Fordyce family to bar her power of dispos- 
ing of- it. We eagerly opened the letters, but found them 
disappointing, as they were mostly offerings of Felicita- 
tions ” to Philip Winslow on having established his “Just 
Claim,” and “refuted the malicious Accusations of Cal- 
umny. ’ ’ They only served to prove the fact that he had 
been accused of something, and likewise that he had power- 
ful friends, and was thought worth being treated with ad- 
ulation, according to the fashion of his day. Perhaps it 
was hardly to be expected that he should have preserved 
evidence against himself, but it was baffling to sift so little 
out of such a mass of correspondence. If we could have 
had access to the Fordyce papers, no doubt they would have 
given the other phase of the transaction, but they were un- 
attainable. The only public record that Clarence could dis- 
cover was much abbreviated, and though there was some 
allusion to intimidation, the decision seemed to have been 
fixed by the non-existence of any entail. 

Christmas was drawing on, and gathering together what 
was left of us. Though Griffith had spent only one Christ- 
mas at home in nine years, it was wonderful how few we 
seemed, even when Martyn returned. My father hked to 
have us about him, and even spoke of Clarence’s giving up 
his post as manager at Bristol, and living entirely at home 
to attend to the estate; but my mother did not encourage 
the idea. She could not quite bear to accept any one in 
Griff’s place, and rightly thought there was not occupation 
enough to justify bringing Clarence home. I was compe- 
tent to assist my father through all the landlord’s business 
that came to him within-doors, and Emily had ridden and 
walked about enough with him to be an efficient inspector 
of crops and repairs, besides that Clarence himself was 
within reach. 

“ Indeed,” he said to me, “ I can not loose my hold on 
Frith and Castleford till I see my way into the future.” 


(HANTRY HOUSE. 


233 


I did not knotv what he intended either then or when he 
gave his voice against dismembering the property by selling' 
the Wattlesea estate, but arranged for rajsing Selina^s in- 
come otherwise, persuading my father to let him undertake 
the building of the required cottages out of his own re- 
sources, on j>rinciples much more wholesome than were 
likely to be employed by the speculator. Nor did I grasp 
what was in his mind when he made me look out my “ ghost 
journal,^ ^ as we called my record of each apparition re- 
ported in the mullion chamber or the lawn, with marks to 
those about which we had no reasonable doubt. Separately 
there might be •explanation, but conjointly and in connec- 
tion with the date they had a remarkable force. 

“ I am resolved,'’^ said Clarence, ‘‘to see whether that 
figure can have a purpose. I have thought of it all those 
years. It has hitherto had no fair play. I was too much 
upset by the sight, and beaten by the utter incredulity of 
everybody else; but now I am determined to look into it.^^ 

There was both awe and resolution in his countenance, 
and I only stipulated that he should not be alone, or with 
no more locomotive companion than myself. Martyn was 
as old as I had been at our former vigil, and a person to be 
relied on. 

A few months ago he would have treated the matter as a 
curious adventurous enterprise — a concession to supersti- 
tion or imagination; but now he took it up with much grave 
earnestness. He had been discussing the evidence for such 
phenomena with friends at Oxford, and the conclusion had 
Wn that they were at times permitted, sometimes as w^arn- 
ing, sometimes to accomplish the redress of a wrong, some- 
times to teach us the reality of the spiritual world about 
us; and, likewise, that some constitutions were more sus- 
ceptible than others to these influences. Of course he had 
adduced all that he knew of his domestic haunted chamber, 
but had found himself uncertain as to the amount of direct 
or trustworthy evidence. So he eagerly read our jottings, 
and was very anxious to keep watch with Clarence, though 
there were greater dilficuties in the way than when the 
outer chamber was Griffith's sitting-room, and always h‘ad 
a fire lighted. 

To our disappointment, likewise, there came an invita- 
tion from the Eastwoods for the evening of the 27th of De- 
cember, the second of the recurring days of the phantom's 


224 : 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


appearance. My father could not, and my motlier would 
not go, but they so much wanted my brothers and sister to 
accept it that itc could not well be declined. Tt was partly a 
political affair, and my father was anxious to put Clarence 
forward, and make him take his place as the future squire; 
and my mother thought depression had lasted long enough 
with her children, and did not like to see Martyn so grave 
and preoccupied. “ It was quite right and very nice in 
him, dear boy, but it was not natural at his age, though he 
was to be a clergyman. 

As to Emily, lier gentle cheerfulness had helped us all 
through our time of sorrow, and just now we had been 
gratified by the tidings of young Lawrence Frith. That 
youth was doing extremely well. There had been golden 
reports from manager and chaplain, addressed to Mr. Cas- 
tleford, the latter adding that the young man evidently 
owed much to Mr. Winslow^s influence. Moreover, Law- 
rence had turned out an excellent correspondent. Long let- 
ters, worthy of forming a book of travels, came regularly 
to Clarence and me, indeed they were thought worth being 
copied into that fat clasped MS. book in the study. Writ- 
ing them must have been a real solace to the exile, in his 
island outside the town, whither all the outer barbarians 
were relegated. So, no doubt, was the packing of the gifts 
that were gradually making Prospect Cottage into a Chi- 
nese exhibition of nodding mandarins, ivory balls, exquis- 
ite little cups, and faggots of tea. Also, a Chinese walking 
doll was sent humbly as an offering for the amusement of 
Miss Winslow’s school-children, whom indeed she astonished 
beyond measure; and though her wheels are out of order, 
and her movements uncertain, she is still a stereotyped in- 
cident in the Christmas entertainments. 

There was no question but that these letters and remem- 
brances gave great pleasure to Emily; but I believe she was 
not in the least conscious that though greater in degree, it 
was not of the same quality as that she felt when a run- 
away scholar who had gone to sea presented her in token of 
gratitude with a couple of dried sea-horses. 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


225 


CHAPTER XL. 

THE MIDNIGHT CHASE. 

What human creature in the dead of night 
Had coursed, like hunted hare, that cruel distance, 

Had sought the door, the window in her flight 
Striving for dear existence? 

Hood. 

On the night of the 26th of December, Clarence and 
Martyn, well wrapped in greatcoats, stole into the outer 
mullion room; but though the usual sounds were heard, 
and the mysterious light again appeared, Martyn perceived 
nothing else, and even Clarence declared that if there were 
anything besides, it was far less distinct to him than it had 
been previously. Could it be that his spiritual perceptions 
were growing dimmer as he became older, and outgrew the 
sensitiveness of nerves and imagination? 

We came to the conclusion that it would be best to watch 
the outside of the house, rather than within the chamber; 
and the dinner-party facilitated this, since it accounted for 
being up and about nearer to the hour when the ghost 
might be expected. Egress could be had through the little 
garden door, and I undertook to sit up and keep up the 
fire. 

All three came to my room on • their return home, for 
Emily had become aware of our scheme, and entreated to 
be allowed to watch with us. Clarence had unfastened the 
alarm bell from my shutters, and taken down the bar after 
the curtains had been drawn by the house-maid, and he n6w 
opened them. It was a frosty moortlight night, and the 
lawn lay white and crisp, marked with fantastic shadows. 
The others looked grave and pale, Emily was in a thick 
white shawl and hood, with a swan Vd own boa over her 
black dress, a somewhat ghostly figure herself, but we were 
in far too serious a mood for light observations. 

There was something of a shudder about Clarence as he 
went to unbolt the back door; Martyn kept close to him. 
We saw them outside, and then Emily flew after them. 
From my window I could watch them advancing on the 
central gravel walk, Emily standing still between her broth- 


226 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


ers, clasping an arm of each. I saw the light near the 
ruin, and caught some sounds as of shrieks and of threaten- 
ing voices, the light flitted toward the gable of the mullion 
rooms, and then was the concluding scream. All was over, 
and the three came back much agitated, Emily sinking into 
an arm-chair, panting, her hands over her face, and a nerv- 
ous trembling through her whole frame, Martyn^’s eyes 
looking wide and scared, Clarence with the well-known 
look of terror on his face. He hurried to fetch the tray of 
wine and water that was always left on the table when any 
one went to a party at night, but he shivered too much to 
prevent the glasses from jingling, and I had to pour out 
the sherry and administer it to Emily. “Oh! poor, poor 
thing,^^ she gasped out. 

“You saw?^^ I exclaimed.- 

“ They did,^^ said Martyn; “ I only saw the light, and 
heard! That was enough !^^ and he shuddered again. 

“ Then Emily did,^^ I began, but Clarence cut me short. 
“ DonT ask her to-night.’’^ 

“Oh! let me tell,^^ cried Emily; “ I canT go away to 
bed till I have had it out. 

Then she gave the details, which were the more notable 
because she had not, like Martyn, been studying our jot- 
tings, and had heard comparatively little of the apparition. 

“ When I joined the boys,^^ she said, “ I looked toward 
the mullion rooms; I saw the windows lighted up, and heard 
a sobbing and crying inside. 

“ So did 1 /^ put in Martyn, and Clarence bent his head. 

“ Then,^^ added Emily, “ by the moonlight I saw the 
gable end, not blank, and covered by the magnolia as it is 
now, but with stone steps up to the bricked-up door- way. 
The door opened, the light spread, and there came out a lady 
in black, with a lamp in one hand, and a kind of parcel in 
the other, and oh, when she turned her face tliis way, it 
was Ellen’s!^^ 

“ So you called out,^^ whispered Martyn. 

“ Dear Ellen, not as she used to be,^^ added Emily, 
“ but like what she was when last I saw her; no, hardly 
that either, for this was sad, sad, scared, terrified, with eyes 
all tears as Ellen never, never was. 

“ I saw,^^ added Clarence, “ I saw the shape, but .not the 
countenance and expression as I used to do. 

“ She came down the steps,’ ^ continued Emily, “ looking 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


227 


about her as if making her escape, hut, just as she came 
opposite to us, there was a sound of tipsy laughing and 
singing from the gate up by the wood. ^ 

‘‘ I thought it real,^^ said Martyn. 

Then,^' continued Emily, “ she wavered, then turned 
and went under an arch in the ruin — I fancied she was hid- 
ifig something — then came out and fled across to the steps; 
but there were two dark men rushing after her, and at the 
stone steps there was a frightful shriek, and then it was all 
over, the steps gone, all quiet, and the magnolia leaves 
glistening in the moonshine. Oh! what can it all mean.^’" 
“Went under the arch,^’’ repeated Clarence. “Is it 
what she hid there that keeps her from resting?^ ^ 

“ Then you believe it really happened said Emily, 
“ that some terrible scene is being acted over again? Oh! 
but can it be the real spirits ?^^ 

“ That is one of the great mysteries, answered Martyn; 
“ but I could tell you of other instances.-’^ 

“ DonT now,'’^ I interposed; “Emily has had quite 
enough. 

We reminded her that the ghastly tragedy was over and 
would not recur again for anotheryear; but she was greatly 
shaken, and we were very sorry for her, when the clock 
warned her to go to her own room, whither Martyn escorted 
her. He hghted every candle he could find, and revived 
the fire; but she was sadly overcome by what she had wit- 
nessed, she lay awake all the rest of the night, and in the 
morning looked so unwell, and had so little to tell about 
the party, that my mother thought her spirits had been too 
much broken for gayeties. 

The real cause could not be confessed, for it would have 
been ascribed to some kind of delirium, and have made a 
commotion for which my father was unfit. * Besides, we 
had reached an age when, though we would not have dis- 
obeyed, liberty of thought and action had become needful. 
All our private confabulations were on this extraordinary 
scene. We looked for the arch in the ruin, but there was, 
as our morning senses told us, nothing of the kind. She 
tried to sketch her remembrance of both that and the gable 
of the mullion chamber, and Martyn prowled about in 
searcli of some hiding-place. Our antiquarian friend, Mr. 
Stafford, had made a conjectural drawing of the chapel re- 
stored^ and all the portfolios about the house were searched 


22S 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


for it, disquieting mamma, who suspected Martyn^s Oxford 
notions of intending to rebuild it, nor would he say that it 
ought not to be done. However, he, with his more ad- 
vanced ecclesiology, pronounced Mr. Stafford's reconstruc- 
tion to be absolutely mistaken and impossible, and set to 
work on a fresh plan, which, by the bye, he derides at pres- 
ent. It afforded, however, an excuse for routing under the 
ivy and among the stones, but without much profit. From 
the moldings on the materials and in the stables and the 
front porch, it was evident that the chapel had been used 
as a quarry, and Emily’s arch was very probably that of 
the entrance door. In a dry summer, the foundations of 
the walls and piers could be traced on the turf, and the 
stumps of one or two columns remained, hut the rest was 
only a confused heap of fragments within which no one 
could have entered as in that strange vision. 

Another thing became clear. There had once been a wall 
between the beech-wood and the lawn, with a gate or door 
in it; Chapman could, just remember its being taken down, 
in James Winslow’s early married life, when landscape 
gardening was. the fashion. It must have been through 
this that the Winslow brothers were returning, when poor 
Margaret perhaps expected them to enter by the front. 

We wished we could have consulted Dame Dearlove, but 
she had died a few years before, and her school was extinct. 


CHAPTER XLI. 


WILLS OLD AND NEW. 


And that to-niglit thou must watch with me 
To win the treasure of the tomb. 


Scott. 


Some seasons seem to be peculiarly marked, as if Death 
did indeed walk forth in them. 

Old Mr. Frith died in the spring of 1841, and it proved 
that he had shown his gratitude to Clarence by a legacy of 
shares in the firm amounting to about £2000. The rest 
of his interest therein went to Lawrence Frith, and his 
funded property to his sister, Mrs. Stevens, a very fair and 
upright disposition of his wealth. 

Only six weeks later, my father had a sudden seizure, and 
there was only time to summon Clarence from London ^-nd 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


229 


Martyn from Oxford, before a second attack closed his right- 
eous and godly career upon earth. 

My motlier was very still and calm, hardly shedding a 
tear, but her whole demeanor was as if life were over for 
her, and she had nothing to do save to wait. She seemed 
to care very little for tendernesses or attentions on our 
part. No doubt she would have been more desolate with- 
out them, but we always had a baffled feeling, as though 
our affection were contrasted with her perfect union with 
her husband. Yet they had been a singularly undemon- 
strative couple; I never saw a kiss pass between them, ex- 
cept as greeting or farewell before or after a journey; and 
if my mother could not use the terms papa or your father, 
she always said, Mr. Winslow. There was a large gath- 
ering at the funeral, including Mr. Fordyce, but he slept 
at Hillside, and we scarcely saw him — only for a few kind 
words and squeezes of the hand. Holy-V/eek was begun, 
and he had to hurry back to Beach-harbor that very night. 

The will had been made on my father^ s coming into the 
inheritance. It provided a jointure of £800 per annum 
for my mother, and gave each of the younger children 
£3000. A codicil had been added shortly after Griffith’s 
death, written in my father’s hand, and witnessed by Mr. 
Henderson and Amos Bell. This put Clarence in the po- 
sition of heir; secured, £500 a year to Griffith’s widow, 
charged on the estate, and likewise an additional £200 a 
year to Emily and to me, hers till marriage, mine for life, 
£300 a year to Martyn, until Earlscombe Rectory should 
be voided, when it was to be offered to him. The executors 
had originally been Mr. Oastleford and my mother, but by 
this codicil Clarence was substituted for the former. 

The legacies did not come out of the Chantry House 
property, for my father had, of course, means of his own 
besides, and bequests had accrued to both him and my 
mother; but Clarence was inheriting the estate much more 
burdened than it had been in 1829, having £2000 a year 
to raise out of its proceeds. 

My mother was quite equal to business, with a sort of 
outside sense, which she applied to it when needful. Clar- 
ence, made it at once evident to her that she was still mis- 
tress of Chantry House, and that it was still to be our home; 
and she immediately calculated what each ought to contrib- 
ute to the housekeeping. She looked rather blank when 


230 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


she found that Clarence did not mean to give up business^ 
nor even to become a sleeping partner; but when she ex- 
amined into ways and means, she allowed that he was pru- 
dent, and that 'perhaps it was due to Mr. Castleford not to 
deprive him of an efficient helper under present circum- 
stances. Meantime she was content to do her best for 
Earlscombe ‘‘ for the present,’’^ by. which she meant till her 
son brought home a vdfe; but we knew that to him the 
words bore a different meaning, though he was still in 
doubt and uncertainty how to act, and what might be the 
wrong to be undone. 

He was anxious to persuade her to go from home for a 
short time, and prevailed ori her at last to take Emily and 
me to Dawlish, while the repairs went on which had been 
deferred during my father ^s feebleness; at least that was 
the excuse. We two, going with great regret, knew that 
his real reason was to have an opportunity for a search 
among the ruins. 

It was in June, just as Martyn came back from Oxford, 
eager to share in the quest. Those two brothers would 
trust no one to help tliem, but one by one, in the long sum- 
mer evenings, they moved each of those stones; I believe 
the servants thought they were crazed, but they could ex- 
plain with some truth that they wanted to clear up the dis- 
puted points as to the architecture, as indeed they succeed- 
ed in doing. 

They had, however, nearly given up, having reached the 
original pavement and disinterred the piscina of the side 
altar, also a beautiful coffin-lid with a floriated cross; when, 
in a kind of hollow, Martyn lighted upon the rotten re- 
mains of something, silken, knotted together. It seemed 
to have inclosed a bundle. There were some rags that 
might have been a change of clothing, also a Prayer-book, 
decayed completely except the leathern covering, inside 
which was the startling inscription, ‘‘ Margaret Winslow, 
her booke; Lord, have mercy on a miserable widow wom- 
an. There was also a thick leathern roll, containing 
needles, pins, and scissors, entirely corroded, and within 
these a paper, carefully folded, but almost destroyed by the 
action of damp and the rust of the steel, so that only thus 
much was visible; I, Margaret Winslow, being of sound 
mind, do hereby give and bequeathe — 

Then came stains that defaced every line, till tlie ex- 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


231 


treme end, where a seal remained; the date 1707 was legi- 
ble, and there were some scrawls, probably the poor lady^s 
signature, and perhaps those of witnesses. Clarence and 
Marty n said very little to one another, but they set out for 
Dawlish the next day. 

‘‘ Found, was indicated to us, but no more, for they 
arrived late, and had to sleep at the hotel, after an evening 
when we were delighted to hear my mother ask so many 
questions about household and parish affairs. In the 
morning she was pleased to send all “ the children out 
on the beach, then free from the railway. It ivas a beauti- 
ful day, with the intensely blue South Devon sea dancing 
in golden ripples, and breaking on the shore with the sound 
Clarence loved so well, as, in the shade of the dark crimson 
cliffs, Emily sat at my feet and my brothers unfolded their 
strange discoveries into her lap. There was a kind of so- 
lemnity in the thing; we scarcely spoke, except that Emily 
said, Oh, will she come again, and, as the tears gath- 
ered at sight of the pathetic petition in the old book, “ Was 
that granted?^^ 

We reconstructed our theory. The poor lady must have 
repented of the unjust will forced from her by her step- 
sons, and contrived to make another; but she must have 
been kept a captive until, during their absence at some 
Christmas convivialities, she tried to escape; but hearing 
sounds betokening their return, she had only time to hide 
the bundle in the ruin before she was detected, and in the 
scuffle received a fatal blow. 

“ But why,^^ I objected, “ did she not remain hidden till 
her enemies were safe in the house 

Terrified beyond the use of her senses,^’ said Clarence. 
By all accounts, said Martyn, the poor creature 
must have been rather a silly woman. 

‘‘For shame, Martyn, cried Emily, “how can you 
tell? They might have seen her go 'in, or she might have 
feared being missed.'’-’ 

“ Or if you watch next Christmas you may see it all ex- 
plained. 

To which Emily replied with a shiver that nothing would 
induce her to go through it again, and indeed she hoped 
the spirit would rest since the discovery had been made. 

“ And then?^^ one of us said, and there was a silence, 
and another futile attempt to read the will. 


232 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


“ I shall take it to London and see what an expert can 
do with it/^ said Clarence. “I have heard of wonderful 
decipherings in the Record Office; but you will remember 
that even if it can be made out, it will hardly invalidate 
our possession after a hundred and thirty years. 

‘‘ Clarence cried Emily, in a horrified voice; and I 
asked if the date were not later than that by which we in- 
herited. 

“ Three years,^^ Clarence said, yes; but as things 
stand, it is absolutely impossible for me to make restitution 
at present. 

“ On account of the burdens on the estate?^^ I said. 

“ Oh, but we could give up,^^ said Emily. 

“ I dare say!^^ said Clarence, smiling; “ but to say noth- 
ing of poor Selina, my mother would hardly see it in the 
same light, nor should I deal rightly, even if I could make 
any alterations. I doubt whether my father would have 
held himself bound — certainly not while no one can read 
tliis document. 

“ It would simply outrage his legal mind,'’^ said Martyn. 

“ Then what is to be done? Is the injustice to be per- 
petual?^^ asked Emily. 

“ This is what I have thought of,” said Clarence. “We 
must leave matters as they are till I can realize enough 
either to pay off all these bequests, or to offer Mr. Eordyce 
the value of the estate. 

“ It is not the whole,” I said. 

Not the Wattlesea part. This means Chantry House 
and the three farms in the village. Ten thousand pounds 
would cover it. ” 

“ Is it possible?” asked Emily. 

“Yes,^^ returned Clarence, “God helping me. You 
know our concern is bringing in good returns, and Mr. Cas- 
tleford will put me in the way of doing more with my 
available capital.” 

“We will save so as to help you!” added Emily. At 
which he smiled. 


CHAl^TRY HOUSE. 


233 


CHAPTER XLIL 

OH A SPREE. 

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, 

Like twilight too, her dusky hair, 

But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful dawn, 

A dancing shape, an image gay, 

To haunt, to startle, and waylay, 

Wordsworth. 

Clarehce went to London according to his determina- 
tion, and as he had for some time been urgent that I should 
try some newly invented mechanical appliances, he took 
me with him, this being the last expedition of the ancient 
yellow chariot. One of his . objects was that I should see 
St. Paid^s Knightsbridge, which was then the most distin- 
■guished church of our school of thought, and where there 
was to be some special preaching. The Castlefords had a 
seat there, and I was settled there in good time, looking 
a-t the few bits of stained glass then in the east window, 
when, as the clergy came in from the vestry, I beheld a 
familiar face, and recognized the fine countenance and 
hearing of our dear old friend Frank Fordyce. 

Then, looking at the row of ladies in front of me, I be- 
held for a moment an outline of a profile recalling many 
tilings. No doubt, Anne Fordyce was there, though instead 
of barely emulating my stunted stature, she towered above 
her companions, looking to my mind most fresh and grace- 
ful in her pretty summer dress; and I knew that Clarence 
saw her too. 

I had never heard Mr. Fordyce preach before, as in his 
flying visits his ministrations were due at Hillside, and I 
certainly should have been struck with the force and beauty 
of his sermon if I had never known him before. It was 
curious that it was on the 49th Psalm, meant perhaps for 
the fashionable congregation, but remarkably chiming in 
with the feelings of us, who were conscious of an inherit- 
ance of evil from one who had “ done well unto himself;^ ^ 
though, no doubt, that was the last thing honest Parson 
Frank was thinking of. 

When the service was over, and Anne turned, she became 


234 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


aware of us, and her face beamed all over. It was a charm- 
ing face, with a general likeness to dear Ellen^s, but with- 
out the fragile ethereal look, and all health, bloom, and 
enjoyment recalling her father^. She was only moving to 
let her pew-fellows pass out, and was waiting for him to 
come for her, as he did in a few moments, and he too was 
all pleasure and cordiality. He told us when we were out- 
side that he had come up to preach, and “ had brought 
Miss Anne up for a spree. ^ ^ They were at a hotel, Mrs. 
Fordyce was at home, and the Lesters were not in town 
this season — a matter of rejoicing to us. Could we not 
come home and dine with them at once? We were too 
much afraid of disappointing Gooch to do so, but they 
made an appointment to meet us at the Eoyal Academy as 
soon as it was open the next morning. 

There was a fortnight of enjoyment. Parson Frank was 
like a boy out for a holiday. He had not spent more than 
a day or two in town for many years; Anne had not been 
there since early childhood, and they adopted Clarence as 
their lionizer, going through such a country-cousin course 
of delights as in that memorable time with Ellen. They 
even went down to Eton and Windsor, Frank Fordyce 
being an old Etonian. I doubt whether Clarence ever had 
a more thoroughly happy time, not even in the north of 
Devon, for there was no horse on his mind, and he was not 
suppressed as in those days. Indeed, I believe, it is the 
experience of others besides ourselves that there is often 
more unmixed pleasure on casual holidays like this than in 
those of early youth; for even if spirits are less high (which 
is not always the case), anticipations are less eager, there is 
more readiness to accept whatever comes, more matured 
appreciation, and less fret and friction at contretemps. 

I was not much of a drag, for when I could not be with 
the others, I had old friends, and the museum was as dear 
to me as ever, in those recesses that had been the paradise 
of my youth; but there was a good deal in which we could 
all share, and as usual they were all kind consideration. 

Anne overflowed with minute remembrances of her old 
home, and Clarence so basked in her sunshine that it began 
to strike me that here might be the solution of all the per- 
plexities especially after the first evening, when he had 
shown his strange discovery to Mr. Fordyce, who simply 
laughed and said we need not trouble ourselves about it. 

r 


CHAKTRT HOUSE. 


235 


Illegible was it? He was heartily glad to hear that it was. 
Even otherwise, forty years ^ possession was quite enough, 
and then he jDointed to the grate, and said that was the best 
place for such things. There was no fire, but Clarence 
could hardly rescue the paper from being torn up. 

As to the ghost, he knew much less than his daughter 
Ellen had done. He said his old aunt had some stories 
about Chantry House being haunted, and had thought it 
incumbent on her to hate the Winslows,- but he had thought 
it all nonsense, and such stories were much better forgot- 
ten. “ Would he not see if there were any letters?^^ 

There might be, perhaps in the solicitor's ofiice at Bath, 
but if he ever got hold of them, he should certainly burn 
them. What was the use of being Christians, if such quar- 
rels were to be remembered? 

■ Anne knew nothing. Aunt Peggy had died before she 
could remember, and even Martyn had been discreet. 
Clarence said no more after that one conversation, and 
seemed to me engrossed between his necessary business at 
the office, and the pleasant expeditions with the Fordyces. 
Only when they were on the point of returning home, did* 
he tell me that the will had been pronounced utterly past 
deciphering, and that he thought he saw a way of setting 
all straight. ‘‘ So do was my rejoinder, and there must 
have been a foolishly sagacious expression about me that 
made him color up, and say, “ Ho such thing, Edward. 
DonT put that into my head. 

IsnT it there alre^y.^^^ 

‘‘ It ought not to be. It would be mere treachery in 
these sweet, fresh, young, innocent days of hers, knowing 
too what her mother would think of it and of me. DidnT 
you observe in old Frank^s unguarded way of reading 
letters aloud, and then trying to suppress bits, that Mrs. 
Fordyce was not at all happy at our being so much about 
with them, poor woman? Ho wonder! the child is too 
young,^^ he added, showing how much, after all, he was 
thinking of it. ‘Ht would be taking a base advantage of 
them now.^’ 

‘‘ But by and by?^^ 

“ If she should be still free when the great end is 
achieved and the evil repaired, then I might dare.^^ 

He broke off with a look of glad hope, and I could see it 
was forbearance rather than constitutional diffidence that 


23G 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


withheld him from awakening the maiden^s feelings. He 
was a very fine-looking man, in his prime— tall, strong, 
and well made, with a singularly grave, thoughtful expres- 
sion, and a rare but most winning smile; and Anne was 
overfiowing with affectionate gladness at intercourse with 
one who belonged to the golden age of her childhood. I 
could scarcely believe but that in the friction of the parting 
the spark would be elicited, and I should even have liked 
to kindle it for them myself, being tolerably certain that 
warm-hearted, unguarded Parson hVank would forget all 
about his lady and blow it with all his might. 

We dined with the Fordyces at their hotel, and sat in the 
twilight with the windows open, and we made Anne and 
Clarence sing, as both could do without notes, but he would 
not undertake to remember anything with an atom of sen- 
timent in it, and when Anne did sing, ‘‘ Auld Lang Syne 
with all her heart, he went and got into a dark corner, and 
barely said, “ Thank you.^^ 

Not a definite answer could be extracted from him in 
reply to all the warm invitations to Beach-harbor that were 
lavished on us by the father, while the daughter expatiated 
on its charms; the rocks I might sketch, the waves and the 
delicious boating, and above all the fisher children and the 
church. Nothing was wanting but to have us all there! 
Why had we not brought Mrs. Winslow, and Emily, and 
Martyn, instead of going to Dawlish? 

Good creatures, they little knew the chill that had been 
cast upon Martyn. They even bemoaned the having seen 
so little of him. And we knew all the time that they were 
mice at play in the absence of their excellent and cautious 
cat. 

“ Now mind you do come!^^ said Anne, as we were in 
the act of taking leave. “ It would be as good as Hillside 
to have you by my Lion rock. He has a nose just like old 
Chapman^ s, and you must sketch it before it crumbles off. 
Yes, and I want to show you all the dear old things you 
made for my baby-house after the fire, your dear little 
wardrobe and all. 

She was coming out with us, oblivious that a London 
hotel was not like her own free sea-side house. Her father 
was out at the carriage door, prepared to help me in. Clar- 
ence halted a moment — 


CHAKTRT HOUSE. 


237 


“ Please, pray, go back, Aniie,^^ lie said, and his voice 
trembled. ‘ This is not home you know.^^ 

She started back, but paused. “ Youdl not forget. 

“ Ob, no; no fear of my forge tting. ^ ^ 

And when seated beside me, he leaned back with a sigh. 
“ How could you help?^^ I .said. 

“ How? Why, the perfect, innocent, childish uncon- 
sciousness of the thing,^'’ he said, and became silent except 
for one murmur on tfc way. 

“ Consequences must be borne — 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

THE PRICE. 

With thee, my hark, I’ll swiftly go 
Athwart the foaming brine. 

Lord Byron. 

Clarence would not tell me his purpose, he said, till he 
had considered it more fully; nor could we have much con- 
versation on the way home, as my mother had arranged 
that we should bring an old friend of hers back with us to 
pay her a visit. So I had to sit inside and make myself 
agreeable to Mrs. Wrightson, while Clarence had plenty of 
leisure for meditation outside on the box-seat. The good 
lady said much on the desirableness of marriage for Clar- 
ence, and the comfort it would be to my mother to see 
Emily settled. 

We had heard much in town of railway shares; and the 
fortunes of Hudson, the railway king, were under discus- 
sion. I suspected Clarence of cogitating the using his 
capital in this manner; and hoped that when he saw his 
way, he might not think it dishonorable to come into fur- 
ther contact with Anne, and reveal his hopes. He 
allowed that he was considering of such investments, but 
would not say any more. 

My mother and Emily had, in the meantime, been escort- 
ed home by Martyn. The first thing Clarence did was to 
bespeak Emily^s company in a turn in the garden. What 
passed then I never knew nor guessed for years after. He 
consulted her whether, in case he were absent from Eng- 
land for five, seven, or ten years, she would be equal to the 


238 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


care of my mother and me. Martyn, when ordained, would 
have duties elsewhere, and could only be reckoned upon in 
emergencies. My mother, though vigorous and practical, 
had shown symptoms of gout, and if she were ill, I • could 
hardly have done much for her; and on the other hand, 
though my health and powers of moving were at their best, 
and I was capable of the headwork of the estate, I was 
scarcely fit to be the representative member of the family. 
Moreover, these good creatures took into consideration that 
poor mamma and I would have been rather at a loss as 
each other^s sole companions. I could sort shades for 
her Berlin work, and even solve problems of intricate knit- 
ting, and I could read to her in the evening; but I could 
not trot after her to her garden, poultry-yard, and cottages; 
nor could she enter into fiie pursuits that Emily had shared 
with me for so many years. Our connecting link, that 
dear sister, knew how sorely she would be missed, and she 
told Clarence' that she felt fully competent to undertake, 
conjointly with us, all that would be incumbent on Chan- 
try House, if he really wanted to be absent. For the rest, 
Clarence believed my mother would be the happier for 
being left regent over the estate; and his scheme broke 
upon me that very forenoon, when my mother and he were 
settling some executor’s business together, and he told her 
that Mr. Castleford wished him to go out to Hong Kong, 
which was then newly ceded to the English, and where the 
firm wished to establish a house of business. 

‘‘ You can’t think of it,” she exclaimed, and the sound 
fell like a knell on my ears. 

“ I think I must,” was his answer. “ We shall be cut 
out if we do not get a footing there, and there is no one 
who can quite answer the purpose. ” 

‘‘Not that young Frith — ” 

‘ ‘ Ten to one but he is on his way home. Besides, if 
not, he has his own work at Canton. We see our way to 
very considerable advantages, if — ” 

“Advantages!” she interrupted. ‘‘I hate speculation. 
I should have thought you might be contented with your 
station; but that is the worst of merchants — they never 
know when to stop. I suppose your ambition is to make 
this a great overgrown mansion, so that your father would 
not know it again.” 

“Certainly not that, mamma,” said Clarence smiling; 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


239 


“ it is the last thing I should think of; but stopping would 
in this case mean going backward. 

“ Why can’t Mr. Castleford send one of his own sons?” 
‘‘ Probably Walter may come out by and by, but he has 
not experience enough for this. ” 

Clarence had not in the least anticipated my mother’s 
opposition, for he had come to underestimate her affection 
for and reliance jpn him. He had us all against him, for 
not only could we not bear to part with him, but the cli- 
mate of Hong Kong was in evil repute, and I had become 
persuaded that, with his knowledge of business, railway 
shares and scrip might be made to realize the amount 
needed, but he said, ‘‘That is what I call speculation. 
The other matter is trade in which, with Heaven’s bless- 
ing, I can hope to prosper. ’ ’ 

He explained that Mr. Castleford had received him on 
his coming to London with almost a request that he would 
undertake tliis expedition; but with fears whether, in his 
new position, he could or would do so, although his pres- 
ence in China would be very important to the firm at this 
juncture; and there would be opportunities which would 
probably result in very considerable profits after a few 
years. If Clarence had been, as before, a mere younger 
brother, it would have been thought an excellent chance; 
and he would almost have felt bound by his obligations to 
Mr. Castleford to undertake the first starting of the’ enter- 
prise, if it had not been for our recent loss, and the doubt 
whether he could be spared from home. 

He made light of the dangers of climate. He had never 
suffered in that way in his naval days, and scarcely knew 
what serious illness meant. Indeed, he had outgrown much 
of that sensibility of nerve which had made him so curiously 
open to-epiritual or semi -spiritual impressions. 

“Any way,” he said, the thing is right to be done, 
provided my mother does not make an absolute point of my 
giving it up; and whether she does or not depends a good 
deal on how you others put it to her. ” 

“ Eight on Mr. Castleford’^ account?” I asked. 

“ That is one side of it. To refuse would put him in a 
serious difficulty; but I could perhaps come home sooner if it 
were not for this other matter. I told him so far as that it 
was an object with me to raise this sum in a few years, and 
he showed me how there is. every likelihood of my being 


240 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


able to do so out there. So now I feel in your hands. If 
you alh and Edward chiefly, set to and persuade my mother 
that this undertaking is a dangerous business, and that I 
can only be led to it by inordinate love of riches — 

“ No, no—” 

‘‘ That^s what she thinks, ” pursued Clarence, “ and that 
I want to be a grander man than my father. That^s at the 
bottom of her mind, I see. Well, if you deplore this, and 
let her think the place can^t do without me, she will come 
out in her strength and make it my duty to stay at home. ” 

‘‘ It is very tempting,” said Emily. 

“We all undertook to give up something. 

“ We never thought it would come in this way!^^ 

“We never do,” said Clarence. 

“ Tell me,^^ said Martyn, “ is this to content that ghost, 
poor thing? Eor it is very hard to believe in her, except in 
the mullion room in December. 

“ Exactly so, Martyn,^^ he answered. “ Impressions 
fade, and the intellect fails to accept them. But I do not 
tliink that is my motive. We know that a wicked deed 
was done by our ancestor, and we hardly have the right to 
pray, ‘ Eemember not the sins of our forefathers,^ unless, 
now that we know the crime, we attempt what restitution 
in us lies.’’^ 

There was no resisting after this appeal, and after the 
first shock, my mother was ready to admit that as Clarence 
owed everything to Mr. Castleford, he could not well desert 
the firm, if it were really needful for its welfare that he 
should go out. We got her to look on Mr. Castleford as 
captain of the ship, and Clarence as first lieutenant; and 
when she was once convinced that he did not want to 
aggrandize the family, but to do his duty, she dropped her 
objections; and we soon saw that the occupations that his 
absence would impose on her would be a fresh interest in 
life. 

Just as the decision was thus ratified, a packet from 
Canton arrived for Clarence from Bristol. It was the first 
reply of young Frith to the tidings of the bequest which 
had changed the poor clerk to a wealthy man, owning a 
large proportion of the shares of the prosperous house. 

I asked* if he were coming home, and Clarence briefly re- 
plied that he did not know — “ it depended — 

“ Is he going towed a fair Chinese with lilyfeet?^^ asked 


CHAKTKY HOUSE. 


241 


Martyii, to which the reply was an unusually discourteous 
“ Bosh/^ as Clarence escaped with his letter. He was so 
reticent about it that 1 required a solemn assurance that 
poor Lawrence^ s head had not been turned by his fortune, 
and that there was nothing wrong with him. Indeed, there 
was great stupidity in never guessing the purport of that 
thick letter, nor that it contained one for Emily, where 
Lawrence Frith laid himself, and all that he had, at her 
feet, ascribing to her all the resolution with which he had 
kept from evil, and entreating permission to come home 
and endeavor to win her heart. We lived so constantly 
together that it is surprising that Clarence contrived to 
give the letter to Emily in private. She implored him to 
say nothing to us, and brought him the next day her letter 
of uncompromising refusal. 

He asked whether it would have been the same if he had 
intended to remain at home. 

“As if you were a woman, you conceited fellow,^ ^ was 
all the answer she vouchsafed him. 

Hor could he ascertain, nor perhaps would she herself 
examine, on which side lay her heart of hearts. The proof 
had come whether she would abide by her pledge to him 
to accept the care of us in his absence. When he asked it, 
it had not occurred to him that it might be a renunciation 
of marriage. Now he perceived that so it had been, but 
she kept her counsel and so did he. We others never 
guessed at what was going on between those two. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

PAYING THE COST. 

But oh! the difference to me. 

Wordsworth. 

So Clarence was gone, and our new life begun in its 
changed aspect. Emily showed an almost feverish eager- 
ness to make it busy and cheerful, getting up a sewing- 
class in the village, resuming the study of Greek, grappling 
with the natural system in botany, all of which had been 
fitfully proposed but hindered by interruptions and my fa- 
therms feebleness. 

On a suggestion of Mr. Stafford's, we set to work on that 


242 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


“ History of Letter Writing which, what with collecting 
materials, and making translations, lasted ns three years 
altogether, and was a great resource and pleasure, besides 
ultimately bringing in a fraction toward the great purpose. 
Emily has confessed that she worked away a good deal of 
vague, weary depression, and sense of monotony into those 
Greek choruses: but to us she was always a sunbeam, with 
her ever-ready attention, and the pla3rfulness which re- 
sumed more of genuine mirth after the first effort and strain 
of spirits were over. 

Then journal-letters on either side began to bridge the 
gulf of separation — those which, minus all the specially in- 
teresting portions, are to be seen in the volume we culled 
from them, and which had considerable success in its day. 

Martyn worked in the parish and read with Mr. Hender- 
son till he was old enough for ordination, and then took 
the curacy of St. Wulstan’s, under a hard-working London 
vicar, and thenceforth his holidays were our festivals. Our 
old London friends pitied us for what they viewed as a 
fearfully dull fife, and in the visits they occasionally paid 
us thought they were doing us a great favor by bringing us 
new ideas and shooting our partridges. 

We hardly deserved their compassion: our lives were full 
of interest to ourselves — that interest which comes of doing 
ever so feeble a stroke of work in one great cause; and there 
was much keen participation in the general life of the 
Church in the crisis through which she was passing. We 
found that, what with drawing pictures, writing little 
books, preparing lessons for teachers, and much besides 
which is now ready done by the National Society and Sun- 
day-School Institute, we could do a good deal to assist 
Martyn in his London work, and our own grew upon us. 

For the first year of her widowhood, my mother shrunk 
from society, and afterward had only spasmodic fits of 
doubt whether it were not her duty to make my sister go 
out more. So that now and then Emily did go to a party, 
or to make a visit of some days or weeks from home, and 
then we knew how valuable she was. It would be hard to 
say whether my mother were relieved or disappointed when 
Emily refused James Eastwood, in spite of many persua- 
sions, not only from himself, but his family. I believe 
mamma thought it selfish to be glad, and that it was a fail- 
ure in duty not to have performed that weighty matter of 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


m 


marrying her daughter; feeling in some way inferior to 
1 ladies who had disposed of a whole flock under five-and- 
twenty, whereas she had not been able to get rid of a single 
one! 

Of Clarence’s doings in China I need not speak; you 
have read of them in the book for yourselves, and you know 
how his work prospered, so that the results more than ful- 
filled his expectations, and raised the firm to the pitch of 
greatness and reputation which it has ever since preserved, 
and this without soiling his hands with the miserable opium 
[ traffic. Some of the subordinates were so set on the gains 
! to be thus obtained, that he and Lawrence Frith h^ad a 
severe struggle with them to prevent it, and were forced 
conjointly to use all their authority as principals to make 
it impossible. Those two were the greatest of friends. 
Their chief relaxation was one another’s company, and 
their earnest aim was to support the Christian mission, and 
to keep up the tone of their English dependents, a terribly 
difficult matter, and one that made the time of their return 
somewhat doubtful, even when Walter Castleford was gone 
out to relieve them. Their health had kept up so well that 
we had ceased to be anxious on that point, and it was 
through the Castleford s that we received the first hint that 
Clarence* might not be as well as his absence of complaint 
had led us to believe. 

In fact he had never been well since a terrible tempest, 
when he had worked hard and exposed himself to save 
life. I never could hear the particulars, for Lawrence was 
away, and Clarence could not write about it himself, having 
been prostrated by one of those chills so perilous in hot 
countries; but from all I have heard, no resident in Hong 
Kong would have believed that Mr. Winslow’s courage 
could ever have been called in question. He ought to have 
come home immediately after that attack of fever; for the 
five years were over, and his work nearly done; but there 
was need to consolidate his achievements, and a strong man 
is only too apt to trifle with his health. We might have 
guessed something by the languor and brevity of his letters, 
but we thought the absence of detail owing to his expecta- 
tion of soon seeing us; and had gone on for months expect- 
ing the announcement of a speedy return, when an unex- 
pected shock fell on us. Our dear mother was still an 
active woman, with few signs of age about her, when, in 


244 


CHANTKY HOUSE. 


her sixty-seventh year, she was almost suddenly taken from 
us by an attack of gOut in the stomach. 

I feel as if I had not done her justice, and as if she might 
seem stern, unsympathizing, and lacking in tenderness. 
Yet nothing could be further from the truth. She was an 
old-fashioned mother, who held it her duty to keep up her 
authority, and counted overfamiliarity and indulgence as 
sins. To her “ the holy spirit of discipline was the begin- 
ning of wisdom,^ ^ and to make her children godly, truthful, 
and honorable was a much greater object than to win their 
love. And their love she had, and kept to a far higher 
degree than seems to be the case with those who court affec- 
tion by caresses and indulgence. We knew that her ap- 
proval was of a generous kind, we prized enthusiastically 
her rare betrayals of her motherly tenderness, and we de- 
pended on her in a manner we only realized in the desola- 
tion, dreariness and helplessness that fell upon us, when 
we knew that she was gone. She had not, nor had any of 
us, understood that she was dying, and she had uttered only 
a few words that could imply any such thought. On hear- 
ing that there was a letter from Clarence, she said, ‘‘ Poor 
Clarence! I should like to have seen him. He is a good 
boy after all. IWe been hard on him, but it will be all 
right now. God Almighty bless hirnT^ 

That was the only formal blessing she left among us. 
Indeed, the last time I saw her was with an ordinary good- 
night at the foot of the stairs. Emily said she was glad 
that I had not to carry with me the remembrance of those 
paroxysms of suffering. My dear Emily had alone the 
whole force of that trial — or shall I call it privilege? 
Martyn did not reach home till some hours after all was 
over, poor boy. 

And in the midst of our desolateness, just as we had let 
the daylight in again upon our diminished numbers round 
the table, came a letter from Hong Kong, addressed to me 
in Lawrence Frith^s writing, and the first thing I saw was 
a scrawl, as follows: 

“ Dearest Ted, — All is in your hands. You can do 
it. God bless you all. W. C. W."" 

When I came to myself, and could see and hear, Martyn 
was impressins: on me that where there is life there is hone. 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 245 

was little of either. He feared our hearing indirectly, and 
therefore wrote to prepare us. 

He had been summoned to Hong Kong to find Clarence 
lying desperately ill, for the most part semi-delirious, hold- 
ing converse with invisible forms, or entreating some one 
to let him alone — ^he had done his best. In one of his more 
lucid intervals he had made Lawrence find that note in a 
case that lay near him, and promise to send it; and he had 
tried to send some messages, but they had become confused, 
and he was too weak to speak further. 

The next mail was sure to bring the last tidings of one 
who had given his life for right and justice. It was only a 
reprieve that what it actually brought was the intelligence 
that he was still alive, and more sensible, and had been able 
to take much pleasure in seeing the friend of his youth. 
Captain Coles, who was there with his shm, the ‘‘ Douro.-’^ 
Then there had been a relapse. Captain Coles had brought 
his doctor to see him, and it had been pronounced that the 
best chance of saving him was a sea-voyage. The “ Duoro 
had just received orders to return to England, and Coles 
had offered to take home both the friends as guests, though 
there was evidently little hope that our brother would reach 
an earthly home. As we knew afterward, he had smiled 
and said it was like rehabilitation to have the chance of dy- 
ing on board of one of H.M ships. And he was held in such 
respect, and was so entirely one of the leading men of the 
little growing colony, and had been known as such a friend 
to the naval men, and had so gallantly aided a queen^s ship 
in that hurricane, that his passage home in this manner 
only seemed a natural tribute of respect. A few last words 
from Lawrence told us that he was safely on board, all 
unconscious of the silent, almost weeping, procession that 
had escorted his litter to the “ Douro^s boat, only too 
much as if it were his bier. In fact. Captain Coles actually 
promised him that if he died at sea he should be buried with 
' the old flag. 

We could not hope to hear more for at least six weeks, 
since our letter had come overland by mail, and the 
‘‘ Duoro would take her time. It was a comfort in this 
waiting time that Martyn could be with us. His rector had 
been promoted; there was a general change of curates; and 
as Martyn had been working up to the utmost limits of 
his strength, we had no scruple in inducing him to remain 


24:6 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


with US, and undertake nothing fresh till this crisis was 
past. Though as to rest, not one Sunday passed without 
requests for his assistance from one or more of the neigh- 
boring clergy. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

ACHIEVED. 

And hopes and fears that kindle hope. 

An nndistinguishahle throng, 

And gentle wishes long subdued — 

Subdued and cherished long. 

S. T. Coleridge. 

The first that we did hear of our brother was a letter 
with a Falmouth postmark, which we scarcely dared to 
open. There was not much in it, but that was enough. 

“ D. G. — I shall see you all again. We put in at Ports- 
mouth.^^ 

There was no staying at home after that. We three lost 
no time in starting, for railways had become available, and 
by the time we had driven from the station at Portsmouth 
the “ Duoro had been signaled. 

Martyn took a boat and went on board alone, for besides 
that Emily did not like to leave me, her dress would have 
been a revelation that all were no longer there to greet the 
arrival. The precaution was, however, unnecessary. 
There stood Clarence on deck, and after the first greeting, 
he laid his hand on Martyn^s arm, and said, “ My mother 
is gone?^^ and on the wondering assent, “ I was quite sure 
of it. 

So they came ashore, Clarence lying in the man-of-war's 
boat, in which his friend insisted on sending him, able now 
to give a smiling response and salute to the three cheers 
with which the crew took leave of him. He was carried up 
to our hotel on a stretcher by half-a-dozen blue jackets. 
Indeed he was grievously changed, looking so worn and 
weak, so hollow-eyed and yellow, and so fearfully wasted, 
that the very memory is painful; and able to do nothing 
but lie on the sofa holding Emily's hand, gazing at us with 
a face full of ineffable peace and gladness. There was a 
misgiving upon me that he had only come back to finish 
his work and bid us farewell. 


OIIAKTRY HOUSE. 


247 


Kindly and considerately they had sent him on before 
with Martyn. In a quarter of an hoards time his good doc- 
tor came in with Lawrence Frith, a considerable contrast 
to our poor Clarence, for the slim gypsy lad had developed 
into a strikingly handsome man, still slender and litlie, hut 
with a fine bearing, and his bronzed complexion suiting 
well with his dark shining hair and beautiful eyes. They 
had brought some of the luggage, and the doctor insisted 
that his patient should go to bed directly, and rest com- 
pletely before trying to talk. 

Then we heard that his condition, though still anxious, 
was far from being hopeless;' and that after the tropics had 
been passed, he had been gradually improving. The kind 
doctor had got leave to go up to London with us, and talk 

over the case with L , and he hoped Clarence might be 

able to bear the journey by the next afternoon. 

Presently after came Captain Coles, whom we had not 
seen since the short visit when we had idolized the big 
overgrown midshipman, whom Clarence exhibited to our 
respectful and distant admiration nearly twenty years ago. 
My mother used to call him a gentlemanly lad, and that 
was just what he, was still, with a singularly soft gentle * 
manner, gallant officer and post-captain as he was. He 
cheered me much, for he made no doubt of Clarence^s ulti- 
mate recovery, and he added that he had found the dear 
fellow so valued and valuable, so useful in all good works, 
and so much respected by all the English residents “ that 
really, said the captain, I did not know whether to de- 
plore that the service should have lost such a man, or 
whether to think it had been a good thing for him, though 
not for us, that — that he got into such a scrape."’^ 

I said something of our thanks. 

‘‘ To tell you the truth, said Coles, I had my doubts 
whether it had not been a cruel act, for he had a terrible 
turn after we got him on board, and all the sounds of a 
queen ^s ship revived the past associations, and always of a 
painful kind in his delirium, till at last, just as I gave him 
up, the whole character of his fancies seemed to change, 
and from that time he has been gaining every day. 

We kept the captain to dinner, and gathered a good deal 
more understanding of the important position to which 
Clarence had risen by force of character and rectitude of 
purpose in that strange little Anglo-Chinese colony; and 


248 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


afterward, I was allowed to make a long visit to Clarence, 
who, having eaten and slept, was quite ready to talk. 

It seemed that the great distress of his illness had been 
the recurrence — nay, aggravation — of the strange suscepti- 
bility of brain and nerve that had belonged to his earlier 
days, and with it either imagination or perception of the 
spirit-world. Much that had seemed delirium had belonged 
to that double consciousness, and he perfectly recollected 
it. As Coles had said, the sights and sounds of the ship 
had been a renewal of the saddest time in his life; he could 
not at night divest himself of the impression that he was 
under arrest, and the sins of his life gathered themselves 
in fearful and oppressive array, as if to stifle him, and the 
phantom of poor Margaret with her lamp — which had 
haunted him from the beginning of his illness — seemed to 
taunt him with having been too faint-hearted and tardy to 
be worthy to espouse her cause. The faith to which he 
tried to cling would seem to fail him in those awful hours, 
when he could only cry out mechanical prayers for mercy. 
Then there had come a night when he had heard my moth- 
,er say, “ All right now; God Almighty bless him. And 
therewith the clouds cleared from his mind. The power of 
feeling, as well as believing in, the blotting out of sin, re- 
turned, the sense of pardon and peace calmed him, and 
from that time he was fully himself again, “ though,^ ^ ho 
said, “ I knew I should not see my mother here.^^ 

If she could only have seen him come home under the 
Union Jack, cheered by sailors, and carried ashore by them, 
it would have been to her like restoration. Perhaps Clar- 
ence in his dreamy weakness had so felt it, for certainly no 
other mode of return to Portsmouth, the very place of his 
degradation, could so have soothed him and effaced those 
memories. The English sounds were a perfect charm to 
him, as well as to Lawrence, the commonest street cry, the 
verj slices of bread and butter, anything that was not 
Chinese, was as water to the thirsty! And wasted as was 
his face, the quiet rest and joy were ineffable. 

Still Portsmouth was not the best place for him, and we 
were glad that he was well enough to go up to London in 
the afternoon; intensely delighted in the May beauty of 
the green meadows, and white blossoming hedgerows, and 
the church towers, especially the gray massiveness of 
Winchester Cathedral. “ Christian tokens/^ he said, in- 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


249 


stead of the gay, gilded pagodas and quaint crumpled roofs 
he had left. The soft haze seemed to be such a rest after 
the glare of perpetual clearness. 

AVe were all born Londoners, and looked at the blue fog, 
and the broad, misty river, and the brooding smoke, with 
the affection of natives, to the amazement of Lawrence, 
who had never been in town without being browbeaten and 
miserable. That he hardly was now, as he sat beside Emily 
all the way up, though they did not say much to one 
another. 

He told us it was quite a new sensation to walk into the 
office without timidity, and to have no fears of a biting, 
crushing speech about his parents or hinjself; but to have 
the clerks getting up deferentially as soon as he was known 
for Mr. Frith. He had hardly ever been allowed by his old 
uncle to come across Mr. Castleford, who was of course 
cordial and delighted to receive him, and, without loss of 
time, set forth to see Clarence. 

The consultation with the physician had taken place, 
and it was not concealed from us that Clarence^s health 
was completely shattered, and his state still very precarious, 
needing the utmost care to give him any chance of recover- 
ing the effects of the last two years, when he had per- 
severed, in spite of warning, in his eagerness to complete 
his undertaking, and then to secure what he had effected. 
The upshot of the advice given him was to spend the sum- 
mer by the sea- side, and if he had by that time gathered 
strength, and surmounted the symptoms of disease, to go 
abroad, as he was not likely to be able as yet to bear En- 
glish cold. Business and cares were to be avoided, and if he 
had anything necessary to be done, it had better be got over 
at once, so as to be off his mind. Martyn and Frith gath- 
ered that the case was thought doubtful, and entirely de- 
pendent on constitution and rallying power. Clarence him- 
self seemed almost passive, caring only for our presence 
and the accomplishment of his tasK. 

AYe had a blessed thanksgiving for mercies received in 
the Margaret Street Chapel, as we called what is now All- 
Saints; but he and I were unfit for crowds, and on Sunday 
morning availed ourselves of a friend^s seat in our old 
church, which felt so natural and home-like to us elders 
that Martyn was scandalized at our taste. But it was the 
church of our Confirmation and first Communion, and 


260 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


Clarence rejoiced that it was that of his first home-coming 
Eucharist. What a contrast was he now to the shrinking 
boy, scarcely tolerated under his stigmatized name! Surely 
the Angel had led him all his life through I 

How happy we two were in the afternoon, while the 
others conducted Lawrence to some more noteworthy 
church. 

“ Now,^^ said Clarence, let us go down to Beach-har- 
bor. It must be done at once. I have been trying to write’ 
and I canH do it,^^ and his face lighted with a quiet smile 
which I understood. 

So we wrote to the principal hotel to secure rooms, and 
set forth on Tuesday, leaving Frith to finish with Mr. Cas- 
tleford what could not be settled in the one business inter- 
view that had been held with Clarence on the Monday. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

RESTITUTION. 

Ah! well for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes. 

WmTTIEB. 

Things always happen in unexpected ways. During the 
little hesitation and difficulty that always attend my tran- 
sits at a station, a voice was heard to say, “Oh! Papa, isnT 
that Edward Winslow?^' Martyn gave a violent start, and 
Mr. Fordyce was exclaiming, “ Clarence, my dear fellow, it 
isn’t you! I beg your pardon; you have strength enough 
left nearly to wring one’s hand off!” 

“ I — I wanted very much to see you, sir,” said Clarence. 
“ Could you be so good as to appoint a time?” 

“ See you! We must always be seeing you of course. 
Let me think. I’ve got three weddings and a funeral to- 
morrow, and Simpson coming about the meeting. Come 
to luncheon — all of you. Mrs. Fordyce will be dehghted, 
and so will somebody else.” 

There was no doubt about the somebody else, for Anne’s 
feet were as nearly dancing round Emily as public propri- 
ety allowed, and the radiance of her face was something to 
rejoice in. Say what people will, Englishwomen in a quiet 
cheerful life are apt to gain rather than lose in looks up to 
the borders of middle age. Our Emily at two-and- thirty 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


251 


was fair and pleasant to look on; while as for Anne For- 
dyce at twenty-three, words w^ill hardly tell hdw lovely were 
her delicate features, brow^n eyes, and carnation cheeks, il- 
luminated by that sunshine brightness of her father’s, 
which made one feel better all day for having been beamed 
upon by either of them. Clarence certainly did, when the 
good man turned back to say, “ Which hotel? Eh? That’s 
too far off. You must come nearer. I w^ould see you in, 
but I’ve got a woman to see before church time, and I’m 
short of a curate, so I must be sharp to the hour. ’ ’ 

“ Can I be of any use?” eagerly asked Martyn. ‘‘ I’ll 
follow you as soon as I have got these fellows to their quar- 
ters. ” 

We had Amos with us, and were soon able to release 
Martyn, after a few compliments on my not being as usual 
the invalid ; and by and by he came back to take Emily to 
inspect a lodging, recommended by our friends, close to the 
beach, and not a stone’s throw from the rectory built by 
Mr. Fordyce. As we two useless beings sat opposite to each 
other, looking over the roofs of houses at the blue exj^anse 
and feeling the salt breeze, it was no fancy that Clarence’s 
cheek looked less wan, and his eyes clearer, as a smile of 
content played on his lips. ‘‘ Years sit well on her,” he 
said gayly, and I thought of rewards in store for him. 

Then he took this opportunity of consulting me on the 
chances for Frith, telling of the original offer, and the quiet 
constancy of his friend, and asking whether I thought 
Emily would relent. And I answered that I suspected that 
she would, “ But you must get well first.” 

‘‘ I begin to think that more possible,” he answered, and 
my heart bounded as he added, “ She would be satisfied, 
since you would always have a home with us. ” 

Oh, how much was implied in that monosyllable. He 
knew it, for a little faint color came up, as he shyly 
laughed and hesitated, “ That is — if — ” 

‘°If” included Mrs. Fordyce’ s not being ungracious. 
Hor was she. Emily had found her as kind as in the old 
days at Hillside, and perfectly ready to bring us into close 
vicinity. It was not caprice that had made this change, but 
all possible doubt and risk of character were over, the old 
wound was in some measure healed, and the friendship had 
been brought foremost by our recent sorrow and our pres- 
ent anxiety. Anne was in ecstasies over Emily. ‘‘ It is so 


252 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


odd/^ she s^id, “to have grown as old as you, whom I 
used to think so very grown up/^ and she had all her pet 
plans to display in the future. Moreover, Martyn had been 
permitted to relieve the rector from the funeral — a privi- 
lege which seemed to gratify him as much as if it had been 
the liveliest of services. 

We were to lunch at the rectory, and the move of our 

f oods was tc be effected while we were there. We found 
Irs. Fordyce looking much older, but far less of an invalid 
than in old times, and there was something more genial 
and less exclusive in her ways, owing perhaps to the differ- 
ence of her life among the many classes with whom she was 
called on to associate. 

Somersetshire, Beach-harbor, and China occupied our 
tongues by turns, and we had to begin luncheon without 
the rector, who had been hindered by numerous calls; in 
fact, as Anne warned us, it was a wonder if he got the 
length of the esplanade without being stopped half-a-dozen 
times. 

His welcome was like himself, but he needed a reminder 
of Clarence^’s request for an interview. Then we repaired 
to the study, for Clarence begged that his brothers might 
be present, and then the beginning was made. “ Ho you 
remember my showing you a will that 1 found in the ruins 
at Chantry House 

“ A horrid old scrap that you chose to call one. Yes; I 
told you to burn it.^'’ 

“ Sir, we have proved that a great injustice was perpe- 
trated by our ancestor, Philip Winslow, and that the poor 
lady who made that will was cruelly treated, if not mur- 
dered. This is no fancy; I have known it for years past, 
but it is only now that restitution has become possible.^-’ 

“ Restitution? What are you talking about? I never 
wanted the place nor coveted it.^^ 

“ Ho, sir, but the act was our forefather's. You can not 
bid us sit down under the consciousness of profiting by a 
crime. I could not do so before, but I now implore you to 
let me restore you either Chantry House and the three 
farms, or their purchase money, according to the valuation 
made at my fa therms deatli. I have it in hand. " 

Frank Fordyce walked about the room quite overcome. 
“ You foolish fellow!'" he said, “ was it for this that you 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 253 

have been toiling and throwing away your health in that 
pestiferous place? Edward, did you know this?’"’ 

‘‘ Yes,^^ I answered. “ Clarence lias intended this ever 
since he found the will.^^ 

‘‘ As if that was a will! You consented. 

We all thought it right. 

He made a gesture of dismay at such folly. 

“ I do not think you understand how it was, Mr. For- 
dyce,^^ said Clarence, who by this time was quivering and 
trembling as in his boyish days. 

“ Ho, nor ever wish to do so. Such matters ought to be 
forgotten, and you don^t look fit to say another word.-’^ 

“ Edward will tell you,^^ said Clarence, leaning back. 

I had the whole written out, and was about to begin when 
the person with whom there was an appointment was re- 
ported, and we knew that the rest of the day was mapped 
out. 

“Look here, said Mr. Fordyce, “leave that with me; 
I can^t give any answer off-hand, except that Don Quixote 
is come alive again, only too like himself. 

Which was true, for Clarence took long to rally from 
the effort, and had to be kept quiet for some time in the 
study where we were left. He examined me on the contents 
of my paper, and was vexed to hear that I had mentioned 
the ghost, which he said would discredit the whole. Never 
was the dear fellow so much inclined to be fretful, and 
when Martyn restlessly observed that if we did not want 
him, he might as well go back to the drawing-room, the 
reply was quite sharp — ‘ Oh, yes, by all means. 

No wonder there was pain in the tone; for the next 
words, after some interval, were, when two happy voices 
came ringing in from the garden behind, “ You see, Ed- 
ward. 

Somehow I had never thought of Martyn. He had sim- 
ply seemed to me a boy, and I had decided that Anne 
would be the crown of Clarence ^s labors. I answered 
“ Nonsense; they are both children together 

“ The nonsense was elsewhere, he said. “ They always 
were devoted to each other. I saw how it was the moment 
he came into the room.^^ 

“ DonT give up,^^ I said; “it is only the old habit, 
When she knows all^ she must prefer — 


254 


CHAKTKY HOUSE. 


Hush!^^ he said. An old scarcecrow and that beau- 
tiful young creature!^’ and he laughed. 

You won^fc be an old scarecrow long. 

“ No/^ he said in an ominous way, and cut short the 
discussion by going back to Mrs. Fordyce. 

He was worn out, had a bad night, and did not get up 
to breakfast; I was waiting for it in the sitting-room, when 
Mr. Fordyce came in after matins with Emily and Martyn. 

“ I feel just like David when they brought him the water 
of Bethlehem,'’^ he said. You know I think this all non- 
sense, especially this — this ghost business; and yet, such — 
such doings as your brother's can’t go for nothing.” 

His face worked, and the tears were in his eyes; then, 
as he partook of our breakfast, he cross-examined us on 
my statement, and even tried to persuade us that the phan- 
tom in the ruin was Emily; and on her observing that she 
could not have seen herself, he talked of the Brocken Spec- 
ter and fog mirages; but we declared the night was clear, 
and I told him that all the rational theories I had ever 
heard were far more improbable than the appearance her- 
self, at which he laughed. Then he scrupulously demanded 
whether this — this (he failed to find a name for it) would 
be an impoverishment of our family, and I showed how 
Clarence had provided that we should be in as easy circum- 
stances as before. In the midst came in Clarence himself, 
having hastened to dress, on hearing that Mr. Fordyce was 
in the house, and looking none the better for the exertion. 

“ Look here, my dear boy,” said Frank, taking his hot 
trembhng hand, “ you have put me in a great fix. You 
have done the noblest deed at a terrible cost, and whatever 
I may think, it ought not to be thrown away, nor you be 
hindered from freeing your soul from this sense of family 
guilt. But here, my forefathers had as little right to the 
Chantry as yours, and ever since I began to think about 
such things, I have been thankful it was none of mine. Let 
us join in giving it or its value to some good work for God 
— pour it out to the Lord, as we may say. Bless me! what 
have I done now.” 

For Clarence, muttering “ thank you,” sunk out of his 
grasp on a chair, and as nearly as possible fainted; but he 
was soon smiling and saying it was all relief, and he felt as 
if a load he had been bearing had been suddenly removed, 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


255 


Frank Fordyce durst stay no longer, but laid bis hand 
on Clarence '’s head and blessed him. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

THE FORDYCE STORY. 

For soon as once the genial plain 
Has drunk the life-blood of the slain. 

Indelible the spots remain, 

And aye for vengeance call. 

EuRiproES— 

Still all was not over, for by the next day our brother 
was as ill, or worse than ever. The doctor who came from 
London allowed that he had expected something of the 
kind, but thought we must have let him exert himself peril- 
ously. Poor innocent Martyn and Anne, they little sus- 
pected that their bright eyes and happy voices had some- 
thing to do with the struggle and disappointment, which 
probably was one cause of the collapse. As to poor Frank 
Fordyce, I never saw him so distressed; he felt as if it were 
all his own fault, or that of his ancestors, and, whenever 
he was not required by his duties^ was lingering about for 
news. I had little hope, though Clarence seemed to me 
the very light of my eyes; it was to me as though, his task 
being accomplished, and the earthly reward denied, he 
must be on his way to the higher one. 

His complete quiescence confirmed me in the assurance 
that he thought so himself. He was too ill for speech, but 
Lawrence, who could not stay away, was struck with the 
difference from former times. Not only were there no de- 
lusions, but there was no anxiety or uneasiness, as there 
had always been in the former attacks, when he was evi- 
dently eager to live, and still more solicitous to be told if 
he were in a hopeless state. Now he had plainly resigned 
himself — 

“ Content to live, but not afraid to die.” 

and perhaps, dear fellow, it was chiefly for my sake that he 
was willing to live. At least, I know that when the worst 
was over, he announced it by putting those wasted fingers 
into mine, and saying: 


CHAKTEY HOUSE. 


256 


Well, dear old fellow, I believe we shall jog on to- 
gether, after all.^^ 

That attack, though the most severe of all, brought, 
either owing to skillful treatment or to his own cato, the 
removal of the mischief, and the beginning of re^recov- 
ery. Previously he had given himself no time, but had 
hurried on to exertions which retarded his cure, so as very 
nearly to be fatal; but he was now perfectly submissive to 
whatever physicians or nurses desired, and did not seem to 
find his slow convalescence in the least tedious, since he 
was among us all again. 

It was nearly a month before he was disposed to recur to 
the subject of his old solicitude again, and then he asked 
what Mr. Fordyce had said or done. Just nothing at all; 
but on the next visit paid to the sick-room. Parson Frank 
yielded to his earnest request to send for any documents 
that might throw light on the subject, and after a few days 
he brought us a packet of letters from his deed-box. They 
were written from Hillside Eectory to the son in the army 
in Flanders, chiefly by his mother, and were full of hot 
angry invective against our family, and pity for poor, fool- 
ish “ Madame,^ ^ or “ Cousin Winslow, as she was gen- 
erally termed, for having put herself in their power. 

The one most to the purpose was an account of the ex- 
amination of Molly Cox, the waiting- woman, who had been 
in attendance on the unfortunate Margaret, and whose story 
tallied fairly with Aunt Peggy^s tradition. She declared 
that she was sure that her mistress had met with foul play. 
She had left her as usual at ten o^ clock on the fatal 27th 
of December, 1707, in the inner one of the old chambers; 
and in the night had heard the tipsy return home of the 
gentlemen, followed by shrieks. In the morning she (the 
maid), who usually was the first to go to her room, was 
met by Mistress Betty Winslow, and told that madame was 
ill and insensible. The old nurse of the AVinslows was 
called in; and Molly was never left alone in the sick-room, 
scarcely permitted to approach the bed, and never to touch 
her lady. Once, when emptying out a cup at the garden- 
door, she saw a mark of blood on the steps, but Mr. Philip 
came up and swore at her for a prying fool. Dr. Tomkins 
was sent for, but he barely walked through the room, and 
“ all know that he is a mere creature of Philip Winslow, 
wrote the Mrs. Fordyce of that date to her son. And pres- 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


257 


ently after, “Justice Eastwood declared there is no case 
for a Grand Jury; but he is a known friend and sworn com- 
rade of the Winslows, and bound to suppress all evidence 
against them. Nay, James Dearlove swears he saw Edward 
Winslow slip a golden guinea into his clerk^s hand. But 
as sure as there is a Heaven above us, Francis, poor Cousin 
Winslow was tiying to escape to us of her own kindred, 
and met with cruel usage. Her blood is on their heads. 

“ There said Frank Fordyce. “ This Francis chal- 
lenged Philip Winslow^s eldest son, a mere boy, three days 
after he joined the army before Lille, and shot him like a 
dog. I turned over the letter about it in searching f or 
these. I canH boast of my ancestors more than you can. 
But may God accept this work of yours, and take away the 
guilt of blood from both of us.^^ 

“ And have you thought what is best to be done?^^ asked 
Clarence, raising himself on his cushions. 

“ Have you?^"" asked the vicar. 

“ Oh, yes; I have had my dreams. 

They put their castles together, and they turned out to 
be for an orphanage, or rather asylum, not too much ham- 
pered with strict rules, combined with a convalescent home. 
The battle of sisterhoods was not yet fought out, and we 
were not quite prepared for them; but Frank Fordyce had, 
as he said, “ the two best women in the world in his eye 
to make a beginning. 

There was full time to think and discuss the scheme, for 
our patient was in no condition to move for many weeks, 
l3dng day after day on a couch just within the window of 
our sitting-room which was as nearly as possible in the sea, 
so that he constantly had tlie freshness of its breezes, the 
music of its ripple, and the sight of its waves, and seemed 
to find endless pleasure in watching the red sails, the puffs 
of steam, and the frolics of the children, simple or gentle, 
on the beach. 

Something else was sometimes to be watched. Martyn, 
all this time, was doing the work of two curates, and was 
to be seen walking home with Anne from church or school, 
carrying her baskets and bags, and, as we were given to 
understand, dispussing by turns ecclesiastical questions, vis- 
ionary sisterhoods, and naughty cliildren. At first I wished 
it were possible to remove Clarence from the perpetual 


258 


CHAIiTTRY HOUSE. 


spectacle, but we had one last talk over the matter, and this 
was quite satisfactory. 

“ It does me no harm,^^ he said; “ I like to see it. Yes, 
it is quite true that I do. What was personal and selfish 
in my fancies seems to have been worn out in the great lull 
of my senses under the shadow of death; and now I can 
revert with real joy and thankfulness to the old delight of 
looking on our dear Ellen as our sister, and watch those 
two children as we used when they talked of dolls^ fenders 
instead of the surplice war. I have got you, Edward; and 
you know there is a love ‘ passing the love of women. 

A lively young couple passed by the window just then, 
and with untamed voices observed : 

“ There are those two poor miserable objects! It is 
enough to make one melancholy only to look at them. 

Whereat we simultaneously burst out laughing; perhaps 
because a choking, very far from misery, was in our throats. 

At any rate, Clarence was prepared to be the cordial, 
fatherly brother, when Martyn came headlong in upon us 
with the tidings that utterly indescribable, unimaginable 
joy had befallen him. A revelation seemed simultaneously 
to have broken upon him and Anne while they were copy- 
ing out the Sunday-school Registers, that what they had 
felt for each other all their lives was love — ‘‘ real, true 
love,^^ as Anne said to Emily, “that never could have 
cared for anybody else. ” 

Mrs. Fordyce^s sharp eyes had seen what was coming, 
and accepted the inevitable, quite as soon as Clarence had. 
She came and talked it over with us, saying she was per- 
fectly satisfied and happy. Martyn was all that could be 
wished, and she was sincerely glad of the connection with 
her old friends. So, in fact, was dear old Frank, but he 
had been running about with his head full, and his eyes 
closed, so that it was quite a shock to him to find that his 
little Anne, his boon companion and playfellow, was act- 
ually grown up, and presuming to love and be loved; and 
he could hardly believe that she was really seven years older 
than her sister had been when the like had begun with her. 
But if Anne must be at those tricks, he said, shaking his 
head at her, he had rather it was with Martyn than any- 
body else. 

There was no difficulty as to money matters. In truth, 
Martyn was not so good a match as an heiress, such as was 


CHAKTRY HOUSE. 


259 


Anne Fordyce, might have aspired to, and her Lester kin 
were sure to be shocked; but even if Clarence married, the 
Earlscombe living went for something (though, by the bye, 
he has never held it), and the Fordyces only cared that there 
should be easy circumstances. The living of Hillside would 
be resigned in favor of Martyn in the spring, and mean- 
time he would gain more experience at Beach-harbor, and 
this would break the separation to the Fordyces. 

After all, however, theirs was not to be our first wedding. 
I have said little of Emily. The fact was, that, after that 
week of Clarence^s danger, we said she lived in a kind of 
dream. She fulfilled all that was wanted of her, nursing 
Clarence, waiting on me, ordering dinner, making the tea, 
and so forth; but it was quite evident that life began for 
her on the Saturdays, when Lawrence came down, and 
ended on the Mondays, when he went away. If, in the 
meantime, she sat down to work, she went ofi into a trance; 
if she was sent out for fresh air, she walked quarter-deck on 
the esplanade, neither seeing nor hearing anything, we 
averred, but some imaginary Lawrence Frith. 

If she had any drawback, good girl, it was the idea of 
deserting me; but then, as I could honestly tell her, nobody 
need fear for my happiness, since Clarence was given back 
to me. And she believed, and was ready to go to China 
with her Lawrence. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

THE LAST DISCOVERY. 

Grief will be joy if on its edge 
Fall soft that holiest ray, 

Joy will be grief, if no faint pledge 
Be there of heavenly day. 

Keble. 

We did not move from Beach-harbor till September, and 
by that time it had been decided that Chantry House itself 
should be given up to the new scheme. It was too large 
for us, and Clarence had never lived there enough to have 
any strong home feeling for it; but he rather connected it 
with disquiet and distress, and had a longing to make act- 
ual restitution thereof, instead of only gmng an equivalent, 


260 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


as he did in the case of the farms. Our feelings about the 
desecrated chapel were also considerably changed from the 
days when we regarded it merely as a picturesque ruin, and 
it was to be at once restored both for the benefit of the or- 
phanage, and for that of the neighboring households. For 
ourselves, a cottage was to be built, suited to our idiosyn- 
crasies; but that could wait till after the yacht voyage, 
which we were to make together for the winter. 

Thus it came to pass that the last time we inhabited 
Chantry House was when we gave Emily to Lawrence 
Frith. AVe would fain have made it a double wedding, 
but the Fordyces wished to wait for Easter, when Martyn 
would have been inducted ta Hillside. They came, how- 
ever, that Mrs. Fordyce might act lady of the house and 
Anne be bride-maid, as well as lay the first stone of St. 
Cecily ^s restored chapel. 

It was on the day on which they were expected, when the 
workmen were digging foundations, and clearing away rub- 
bish, that the foreman begged Mr. Winslow to come out to 
see something they had found. Clarence came back, very 
grave and awe-struck. It was an old oak chest, and within 
lay a skeleton, together with a few fragments of female 
clothing, a wedding-ring, and some coins of the later Stew- 
arts, in a rotten leathern purse. This was ghastly confir- 
mation, though there was nothing else to connect the bones 
with poor Margaret. We had some curiosity as to the coffin 
in the niche in the family vault which bore her name, but 
both Clarence and Mr. Fordyce shrunk from investigations 
which could not be carried out without publicity, and might 
perhaps have disturbed other remains. 

So on the ensuing night there was a strange, quiet funeral 
service at Earlscombe Church. Mr. Henderson officiated, 
and Chapman acted as clerk. These, with Amos Bell, 
alone knew the tradition, or understood what the discovery 
meant to the two Fordyces and three Winslows who stood 
at the opening of the vault, and prayed that whatever guilt 
there might be should be put away from the families so 
soon to be made one. The coins were placed with those of 
Victoria, which the next day Anne laid beneath the founda- 
tion stone of St. Cecily^ s. I need not say that no one has ever 
again heard the wailings, nor seen the lady with the lamp. 
What more is there to tell? It was of this first half of our 
lives that I intended to write^ and though many years 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


261 


have since passed, they have not had the same character of 
romance and would not interest you. Our honey-moon, as 
Mr. Fordyce called the expedition we two brothers made in 
the Mediterranean, was a perfect success; and Clarence re- 
gained health, and better spirits than had ever been his, 
while contriving to show me all that I was capable of being 
carried to see. It was complete enjoyment, and he came 
home, not as strong as m old limes, but with fair comfort 
and capability for the work of life, so as to be able to take 
Mr. Castleford^s place, when our dear old friend retired 
from active direction of the firm. 

You all know how the two old bachelors have kept house 
together in London and at Earlscombe cottage, and you 
are all proud of the honored name Clarence Winslow has 
made for himself, foremost in works for the glory of God 
and the good of men — as one of those merchant princes of 
England whose merchandise has indeed been Holiness unto 
the Lord. Thus you must all have felt a shock on finding 
that he always looked on that name as blotted, and that 
one of the last sayings I heard from him was, “ 0 remem- 
ber not the sins and offenses of my youth, but according to 
Thy mercy, think Upon me, 0 Lord, for Thy goodness. 

Then he almost smiled, and said, Yes. lie has so 
looked on me, and I am thankful. 

Thankful, and so am I, for those thirty-four peaceful 
years we spent together, or rather for the seventy years of 
perfect brotherhood that we have been granted, and 
though he has left me behind him, I am content to wait. It 
can not be for long. My brothers and sisters, their children, 
and my faithful Amos Bell, are very good to me; and in 
writing up to that mezzo termine of our lives, I have been 
livng it over again with my brother of brothers, through 
the troubles that have become hke joys. 

EEMARKS. 

Uncle Edward has not said half enough about his dear 
old self. I want to know if he never was unhappy when 
he was young about being like that, though mother says 
liis face was always nearly as beautiful as it is now. And 
it is not only goodness. It is beautiful with his sweet smile 
and snowy white hair. 

Ellen Winslow. 


262 


CHANTEY HOUSE. 


And I wonder, though perhaps he could not have told, 
what Aunt Anne would have done if Uncle Clarence had 
not been so forbearing before he went to China. 

Claee Ueith. 

The others are highly impertinent questions, but we ought 
to know what became of Lady Peacock. 

Ed. G. W. 

EEPLY. 

Poor woman, she drifted back to London after about ten 
years, with an incurable disease. Clarence put her into 
lodgings near us, and did his best for her as long as she 
lived. He had a hard tasli, but she ended by saying he 
was her only friend. 

To question No. 2 I have nothing to say; but as to No. 
1, with its extravagant compliment. Nature, or rather God, 
blessed me with even spirits, a methodical nature that pre- 
fers monotony, and very little morbid shyness; nor have I 
ever been devoid of tender care and love. So that I can 
only remember three severe fits of depression. One, when 
I had just begun to be taken out in the Square Gardens, 
and Selina Clarkson was heard to say I was a hideous little 
monster. It was a revelation, and must have given fright- 
ful pain, for I remember it acutely after sixty-five years. 

The second fit was just after Clarence was gone to sea, 
and some very painful experiments had been tried in vain 
for making me like other people. For the first time I faced 
the fact that I was set aside from all possible careers, and 
should be, as I remember saying, ‘‘ no better than a girl.^^ 
I must have been a great trial to all my friends. My father 
tried to reason on resignation, and tell me happiness could 
be in myself, till he broke down. My mother attempted 
bracing by reproof. Miss Newton endeavored to make me 
see that this was my cross. Every word was true, and came 
round again, but they only made me for the time more re- 
bellious and wretched. That attack was ended, of all 
things in the world, by heraldry. My attention somehow 
was drawn that way, and the study filled up time and 
thought till my misfortunes passed into custom, and 
haunted me no more. 

My last was a more serious access, after coming into the 


CHANTRY HOUSE. 


263 


country, when improved health and vigor inspired crav- 
ings that made me fully sensible of my blighted existence. 

I had gone the length of my tether and overdone my- 
self; I missed London life and Clarence; and the more I 
blamed myself and tried to rouse myself, the more de- 
spondent and discontented I grew. 

This time my physician was Mr. Stalford; I had de- 
ciphered a bit of old French and Latin for him, and he 
was very much pleased. “Why, Edward, he said, 
“ you are a very clever fellow; you can be a distinguished 
— or what is better — a useful man.^^ 

Somehow that saying restored the spring of hope, and 
gave an impulse! I have not been a distinguished man, 
but I think in my degree I have been a fairly useful one, 
and I am sure I have been a happy one. E. W. 

“ Useful! that you have, dear old fellow. Even if you 
had done nothing else, and never been an unconscious 
backbone to Clarence; your influence on me and mine has 
been unspeakably blest. But pray, .Mistress Anne, how 
about that question of naughty little Clare’ s?^^ 

M. W. 

“ Don’t you think you had better let alone that ques- 
tion, reverend sir? Youngest pets are apt to be saucy, 
especially in these days, but I didn’t expect it of you! It 
might have been the worse for you if W. C. W. had not 
held his tongue in those days. Just like himself, but I am 
heartily glad that so he did. 

A. W.” 


THE END. 


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Besant 20 

98 A Woman-Hater. By Charles 

Reade 20 

99 Barbara’s History. Bj' Amelia 

B. Edwards 20 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. 

By Jules Verne 20 

101 Second Thoughts. Bj’^ Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

102 The Moonstone. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

103 Rose Fleming. By Dora Russell 10 

104 The Coral Pin. By F. Du Bois- 

gobey 1st & 2d half, each 20 

105 A Noble Wife. By John Saun- 

ders 20 

106 Bleak House. By Charles Dick- 

ens. First half 20 

106 Bleak House. By Charles Dick- 

ens. Second half 20 

107 Dombey and Son. By Charles 

Dickens. 1st and 2d half , each 20 

108 The Cricket on the Hearth, and 

Doctor Marigold. By Charles 
Dickens 10 

109 Little Loo. By W. Clark Rus- 

ggll 20 

110 Under the Red Flag. By Miss 

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116 Moths. By“Ouid'a” 20 

117 A Tale of the Shore and Ocean. 

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119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. 

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121 Maid of Athens. By Justin Mc- 

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135 A Great Heiress. By R. E. Fran- 

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136 “That Last Rehearsal.” By 

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137 Uncle Jack. By Walter Besant 10 

138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 

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140 A Glorious Fortune. By Walter 

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143 One False, Both Fair. J. B. 

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144 Promises of Alarriage. By 

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145 “ Storm-Beaten God and The 

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154 Annan Water. By Robert Bu- 

chanan 20 

155 Lady Aluriel’s Secret. By Jean 

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156 “ For a Dream's Sake.” By Airs. 

Herbert Alartin ! 20 

157 Alilly’s Hero. By F. W. Robin- 

son 20 

158 The Starling. By Norman Alac- 

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159 A Aloment of Aladness, and 

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160 Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah 

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161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded 

on the Play of that title by 
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162 Eugene Aram. By Sir E. Bul- 

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163 Winifred Power. By Joyce Dar- 

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164 Leila: or. The Siege of Grenada. 

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165 The History of Henry Esmond. 

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166 Moonshine and Alarguerites. By 

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167 Heart and Science. By Wilkie 

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168 No Thoroughfare. B}' Charles 

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169 The Haunted Alan. By Charles 

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170 A Great Treason. By Alary 

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171 Fortune’s Wheel, and Other 

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172 “ Golden Girls.” By Alan Aluir 20 

173 The Foreigners. By Eleanor C. 

Price 20 

174 Under a Ban. By Airs. Lodge. . 20 

175 Love’s Random Shot, and Other 

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176 An April Day. By Philippa P. 

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177 Salem Chapel. By Mrs.Oliphant 20 

178 Alore Leaves from the Journal 

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179 Little Alake-Believe. By B. L. 

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187 The Midnight Sun. ByFredrika 

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188 Idonea. By Anne Beale 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate. Mrs. Alexander 10 

190 Romance of a Black Veil. By 

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191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 


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192 At the World’s Mercy. By F. 

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193 The Rosary Folk. By G. Man- 

ville Fenn 10 

194 “SoNear, andYet So Far!’’ By 

Alison 10 

195 “ The Way of the World.” By 

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196 Hidden Perils. By Mary Cecil 

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197 For Her Dear Sake. By Mary 

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198 A Husband’s Story 10 

199 The Fisher Village. By Anne 

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201 The Monastery. By Sir Walter 

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203 John Bull and His Island. By 

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204 Vixen. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

205 The Minister’s Wife. By Mrs. 

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209 John Holdsvvorth, Chief Mate. 

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210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 

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Reade 20 

214 Put Yourself in His Place. By 

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215 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 

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216 Foul Play. By Charles Reade. 20 

217 'The Man She Cared For. By 

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221 Coinin’ Thro’ the Rye. By 

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223 A Sailor’s Sweetheart. By W. 

Olfjvlr T?n^Qpll ^0 

224 The Arundel Motto. Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

225 The Giant’s Robe. By F. Anstey 20 

226 Friendship. By“Ouida” 20 

227 Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton . 20 

228 Princess Napraxine. By “ Oui- 

(ja ” yo 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? By 

Mrs. Alexander 10 

230 Dorothy Forster. By Walter 

Besant 20 

231 Griffith Gaunt. Charles Reade 20 

232 Love and Money ; or, A Perilous 

Secret. By Charles Reade. . . 10 
283 “ I Say No or, the Love-Letter 
Answered. Wilkie Collins. ... 20 

234 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery. 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

235 “It is Never Too Late to 

Mend.” By Charles Reade. . . 20 

236 Which Shall It Be? Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

237 Repented at Leisure. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 

238 Pascarel. By“Ouida” 20 

239 Signa. By “Ouida ” 20 

240 Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 

241 The Baby’s Grandmother. By 

L. B. Walford 10 

242 The Two Orphans. ByD’Ennery 10 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” First 

half. By Charles Lever 20 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” Second 

half. By Charles Lever 20 

244 A Great Mistake. By the author 

of “ His Wedded Wife ” 20 

245 Miss Tommy, and In a House- 

Boat. By Miss Mulock 10 

246 A Fatal Dower. By the author 

of “ His Wedded Wife ” 10 

247 The Armourer’s Prentices. By 

Charlotte M. Yonge 10 

248 The House on the Marsh. F. 


249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 

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250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana’s Discipline. By the au- 
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251 The Daughter of the Stars, and 

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252 A Sinless Secret. By “ Rita ”. . 10 

253 The Amazon. By Carl Vosmaer 10 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair but 

False. By the author of 
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255 The Mystery. By Mrs. Henry 

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256 Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. 

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258 Cousins. Bj' L. B. Walfonl 20 

259 The Bride of Monte-Cristo. (A 

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260 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 10 

261 A Fair Maid. By F. \V. Robinson 20 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Parti By Alexander Dumas 20 

262 Tlie Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Part II. By Alexander Dumas 20 

263 An Islimaeiite. By Miss M. E. 


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264 Pi^douche, A French Detective. 

By Fortun6 Du Boisgobey 10 

265 Judith Shakespeare : Her Love 

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By William Black 20 

266 The Water-Babies. A Fariiy Tale 

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267 Laurel Vane; or, The Girls’ 

Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 
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268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or. The 

Miser's Treasure. By Mrs. 
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269 Lancaster’s Choice. By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part I. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

270 Tlie Wandering Jew. Part II. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

271 The jllysteries of Paris. Part I. 

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271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part II. 

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272 The Little Savage. By Captain 

Marry at 10 

27.3 Love and Mirage ; or, The Wait- 
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274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 

Princess of Great Britain and 
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275 The Three Brides. Charlotte M. 

Yonge 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. By 

Florence Marr 3 "at (Mrs. Fran- 
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277 The Surgeon’s Daughters. By 

Mrs. Henry Wood. A Man of 
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278 For Life and Love. By Alison. 10 

279 Little Goldie. Mrs. Sumner Hay- 

den 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 

ciety. By Mrs. Forrester 10 

281 The Squire’s Legacy. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

282 Donal Grant. By George Mac- 

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283 The Sin of a Lifetime. By the 

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287 At War With Herself. By the 

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288 From Gloom to Sunlight. By 

the author of ‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 10 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 

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290 Nora’s Love Test. B 3 ’ Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

291 Love’s Warfare. B 3 '^ the author 

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292 A Golden Heart. By the author 

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293 The Shadow of a Sin. B 3 '^ the 

author of ‘‘ Dora Thorne ”... 10 
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Thorne” 10 

295 A Woman’s War. By the author 

^ of ‘‘ Dora Thorne ’’ 10 

296 A Rose in Thorns. By the au- 

thor of ‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly. By the author 

of ‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 10 

298 Mitchelhurst Place. By Marga- 

ret Veley 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea. By the author 
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300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love. By the author of ‘‘ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

301 Dark Days. By'Hugh Conway. 10 

302 The Blatchford Bequest. By 

Hugh Conway 10 

303 Ingledew House, and IHore Bit- 

ter than Death. By the author 
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304 In Cupid’s Net. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 

doline’s Dream. By the au- 
thor of ‘‘Dora Thorne” 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for a 

Day. By the author of ‘‘ Dora 
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307 Two Kisses, and Like No Other 

Love. By the author of ‘‘ Dora 
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308 Beyond Pardon 20 

309 The Pathfinder. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

310 The Prairie. By J. Fenimore 

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311 Two Years Before the Mast. By 

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312 A Week in Killarney. By ‘‘ The 

Duchess” 10 

313 The Lover’s Creed. By Mrs. 

Cashel Hoey 20 

314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill 20 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. Edited 

by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

316 Sworn to Silence ; or, Aline Rod- 
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319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

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820 A Bit of Human Nature. By 
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321 The Prodigals : And Their In- 

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322 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

32.3 A Willful Maid 20 

324 In Luck at Last. By Walter 

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325 The Portent. By George Mac- 

donald 10 

326 Phautastes. A Faerie Romance 

for Men and Women. By 
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327 Raymond’s Atonement. (From 

tlie German of E. Werner.) 

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328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

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328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliuer. B.v 

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329 The Polish Jew. ByErckmaun- 


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330 May Blossom ; or, Between Two 

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331 Gerald. By Eleauor C. Price.. 20 

332 Judith Wynne. A Novel 20 

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336 Philistia. By Cecil Power 20 

337, .Memoirs and Resolutions of 

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344 “The Wearing of the Green.’’ 

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345 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

846 Tumbledown Farm. By Alan 

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352 At Any Cost. By Edward Gar- 

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353 The Black Dwarf, and A Leg- 

end of Montrose. By Sir Wal- 
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354 The Lottery of Life. A Stoiy 

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355 That Terrible Man. By W. E. 

Norris. The Princess Dago- 
mar of Poland. By Heinrich ■ 
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356 A Good Hater. By Frederick 

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357 John. A Love Story. By Mrs. 

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358 Within the Clasp. By J. Ber- 

wick Harwood 20 

359 The Water-Witch. By J. Feni- 

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360 Ropes of Sand. By R. E. Fran- 

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361 The Red Rover. A Tale of the 

Sea. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

362 The Bride of Lammermoor. 

By Sir Walter Scott 20 

363 The Surgeon’s Daughter. By 

Sir Walter Scott 10 

364 Castle Dangerous. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 10 

365 George Christy; or. The Fort- 

unes of a Minstrel. By Tony 
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366 The Mysterious Hunter; or, 

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367 Tie and Trick. By Hawley Smart 20 

368 The Southern Star ; or. The Dia- 

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369 Miss Bretherton. ByMrs. Hum- 

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370 Lucy Crof ton. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

371 Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 20 

372 Phyllis’ Probation. By the au- 

thor of “ His Wedded Wife ’’, 10 

373 Wing-and-Wing. J. Fenimore • 

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374 The Dead Man’s Secret ; or. The 

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dent. By Dr. Jupiter Paeon.. 20 
875 A Ride to Khiva. By (3apt. Fred 
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376 The Crime of Christmas-Day. 

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Knoll. J. Fenimore Cooper.. 20 

381 The Red Cardinal. By Frances 

Elliot 10 

382 Three Sistei*s; or. Sketches of 

a Highly Original Family. 

By Elsa D’Esterre-Keeling. . . 10 

383 Introduced to Society. By Ham- 

ilton A'id6 10 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 

Minor. Capt. Fred Burnabj'. 20 
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des Vignerons. By J. Feui- 
more Cooper 20 

386 Led Astray ; or, “La Petite Comt- 

esse.” By Octave Feuillet.. . 10 

387 The Secret of the Cliffs. By 

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388 Addie’s Husband; or, Through 

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389 Ichabod. By Bertha Thomas... 10 

390 MiAired Trevanion. By “The 


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391 The Heart of Mid-Lothian. By 

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393 The Pirate. B3’ Sir Walter Scott 20 

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395 The Archipelago on Fire. By 

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396 Robert Ord’s Atonement. By 

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397 Lionel Lincoln; or, The Leaguer 

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398 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan. 

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399 Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee.. 20 

400 The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish. 

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406 The Mercliant’s Clerk. By Sam- 

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407 Tylne^' Hall. By Thomas Hood 20 

408 Le.ster’s Secret. By Mary Cecil 

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412 SomeOue Else. ByB. M. Croker 20 

413 Afloat and Ashore. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 

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415 The Ways of the Hour. By J. 

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416 Jack Tier; or. The Florida Reef. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

417 The Fair Maid of Perth ; or, St. 

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418 St. Ron an ’s Well. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 20 

419 The Chainbeaier ; or. The Little- 

page Manuscripts. By J. 
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420 Satanstoe; or. The Littlepage 

Manuscripts. B3' J. Fenimore 
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421 The Redskins; or, Indian and 

In jin. Being the conclusion 
of The Littlepage Manu- 
scripts. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

422 Precaution. J.Fenimore Cooper 20 

423 The Sea-Lions; or. The Lost 

Sealers. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

424 Mercedes of Castile; or. The 

Voyage to Cathay. By J. 


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425 The Oak Openings ; or. The Bee- 

Hunter. J. Fenimore Cooper. 20 

426 Venus’s Doves. By Ida Ash- 

worth Taylor 20 


427 The Remarkable History of Sir 
Thomas Upmore, Bart., M.P., 
formerly known as “Tommy 


Upmore.” R. D. Blackmore. 20 

428 ZAro: A Story of Monte-Carlo. 

By Mrs. Campbell Praed 10 

429 Boulderstone; or. New Men and 

Old Populations. B3'^ Wiliam 

Sime 10 

480 A Bitter Reckoning. By the 

author of “By Crooked Paths” 10 ' 

431 The Monikins. By J. Fenimore 

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432 The Witch’s Head. By H. Rider 

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433 My Sister Kate. By Charlotte 

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434 Wyllard’s Weird. By Miss M. 

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435 Klytia: A Story of Heidelberg 

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436 Stella. By Fann3’^ Lewald 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Mai tin 

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573 Love’s Harvest. B. L. Farjeou 20 

574 The Nabob : A Story of Parisian 

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575 The Finger of Fate. By Cap- 

tain Mayne Reid 20 

576 Her Martyrdom. By Charlotte 

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577 In Peril and Privation. By 

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578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 
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578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 
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578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

Verne. Part III. (Illustrated) 10 

579 The Flower of Doom, and Other 

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580 The Red Route. William Sirae 20 

581 The Betrothed. (I Promessi 

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582 Lucia, Hugh and Another. By 


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583 Victory Deane. Cecil Griffith.. 20 

584 Mixed Motives 10 

585 A Drawn Game. By Basil 20 

586 “For Percival.’’ By Margaret 

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588 Cherry. By the author of “ A 

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589 The Luck of the Darrells. By 

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590 The Courting of Maiy Smith. 

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591 The Queen of Hearts. By Wil- 

kie Collins 20 

592 A Strange Voyage. By W. 

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593 Berna Boyle. By Mrs. J. H. 

Riddell 20 

594 Doctor Jacob. By Miss Betham- 

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595 A North Country Maid. By Mrs. 

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596 My Ducats and My Daughter. 

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598 Corinna. By “Rita.” 10 

599 Lancelot Ward, M. P. By 

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600 Houp-La. By John Strange 

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601 Slings and Arrows, and Other 

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605 Ombra. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

606 Mrs. Holly er. By Georgiaua M. 


Craik 20 

607 Self-Doomed. By B. L. Farjeon 10 

608 For Lilias. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carey 20 

609 The Dark House : A Knot Un- 

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610 The Story of Dorothy Grape, 

and Other Tales. By Mrs. 
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611 Babylon. By Cecil Power 20 

612 My AVife’s Niece. By the au- 

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613 The Ghost’s Touch, and Percy 

and the Prophet. By AVilkie 
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614 No. 99. By Arthur Griffiths... 10 

615 Mary Anerley. By R. D. Black- 

more 20 

616 The Sacred Nugget. By B. L. 

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617 Like Dian’s Kiss. By “ Rita ”. 20 

618 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 

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619 Joy; or. The Light of Cold- 

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620 Between the Heather and the 

Northern Sea. M. Linskill. . . 20 

621 The Warden. Anthony Trollope 10 

622 Harry Heathcote of Gangoil. 

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623 My Lady’s Money. By Wilkie 

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624 Primus in Indis. By M. J. 

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625 Erema; or. My Father’s Sin. 

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626 A Fair M 3 'stery. By Charlotte 

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627 White Heather. By AA^m. Black ^ 

628 AVedded Hands. By the author 

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635 Murder or Blanslaughter? By 

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637 What’s His Offence ? A Novel. 20 

638 In Quarters with the 25th (The 

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639 Othmar. By “Ouida” 20 

640 Nuttie’s Father. By Charlotte 

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641 The Rabbi’s Spell. By Stuart 

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642 Britta. By George Temple 10 

643 The Sketch-book of Geoffrey 

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644 A Qirton Girl. By Mrs. Annie 


645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains. By 

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646 The Master of the Mine. By 

Robert Buchanan 20 

647 Goblin Gold. By May Crom- 

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648 The Angel of the Bells. By F. 

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649 Cradle and Spade. By William 

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651 ‘‘Self or Bearer” By Walter 

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652 The Lady With the Rubies. By 

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654 “ Us.” An Old-fashioned Story. 

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655 The Open Door, and The Por- 

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656 The Golden Flood. By R, E. 

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657 Christmas Angel, By B. L. 

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658 The History of a Week. By 

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659 The Waif of the “ Cynthia.” By 

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660 The Scottish Chiefs. By Miss 

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661 Rainbow Gold. By David Chris- 

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662 The Mystery of Allan Grale. 

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663 Handy Andy. By Samuel 

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664 RoryO’More. By Samuel Lover 20 

665 The Dove in the Eagle’s Nest. 

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666 My Young Alcides. By Char- 

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667 The Golden Lion of Granpere. 

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668 Half-Way. An Anglo-French 

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669 The Philosophy of Whist. By 

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670 The Rose and the Ring. By W. 

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671 Don Gesualdo, By ” Ouida.”. . 10 

672 In Mai emma. By ” Ouida.” 


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672 In Maremma. By “ Ouida.” 

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673 Story of a Sin. By Helen B. 

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674 First Person Singular. By 

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675 Mrs. Dymond. By Miss Thack- 

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676 A Child’s History of England. 

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677 Griselda. By the author of ” A 

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678 Dorothy’s Venture. By Mary 

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679 Where Two Ways Meet. By 

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680 Fast and Loose. By Ai’thur 

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681 A Singer’s Story. By May Laf- 

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682 In the Middle Watch. By W. 

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683 The Bachelor Vicar of New- 

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684 Last Days at Apswich. 10 

685 England Uuder Gladstone. 1880 

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686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

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687 A Country Gentleman. By Mrs. 

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688 A Man of Honor. By John 

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689 The Heir Pi'esumptive. By 

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690 Far From the Madding Crowd. 

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692 The Mikado, and Other Comic 

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693 Felix Holt, the Radical. By 

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694 John Maidment. By Julian 

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695 Hearts: Queen, Knave, and 

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696 Thaddeus of Warsaw. By Miss 

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697 The Pretty Jailer. By F. Du 

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702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 

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702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 

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703 A House Divided Against Itself. 

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704 Prince Otto. By R. L. Steven- 

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705 The Woman I Loved, and the 

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706 A Crimson Stain. By Annie 

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707 Silas Marner. The Weaver of 

Raveloe. By George Eliot . . 10 

708 Ormond. By Maria Edgeworth 20 


709 Zenobia ; or, the Fall of Palmyra 
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711 A Cardinal Sin. By Hugh Con- 

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712 For Maimie’s Sake. By Grant 

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713 “Cherry Ripe!’’ By Helen B. 

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714 ’Twixt Love and Duty. By 

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715 I Have Lived and Loved. By 

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716 Victor and Vanquished. By 

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717 Beau Tancrede; ’ or, the Mar- 

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718 Unfairly Won. By Mrs. Power 

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719 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. 

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720 Paul Clifford. By Sir E. Bulwer 

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721 Dolores. By IMrs. Forrester. ... 20 

722 What’s Mine’s Mine. By George 

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723 Mauleverer’s Millions, By T- 

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724 My Lord and My Lady. By 

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725 My Ten Years’ Imprisonment. 

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726 My Hero. By Jlrs. Forrester... 20 

727 Fair Women. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

728 Janet’s Repentance. By George 

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729 Mignon. Mrs. Forrester 20 

730 The Autobiography of Benja- 

min Franklin 10 

731 The Bayou Bride. By Mi's. Mary 

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732 From Olympus to Hades. By 

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733 Lady Brauksmere. By “The 

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734 Viva. B3^ Mrs. Forrester 20 

735 Until the Day Breaks. By 

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736 Roy arid Viola. Mrs. Forrester 20 

737 Aunt Rachel. By David Christie 

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738 In the Golden Days. By Edna 

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789 The Caged Lion. By Charlotte 
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740 Rhona. 65^ Mrs. Forrester 20 

741 The Heiress of Hilldrop; or. 

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742 Love and Life. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

743 Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 

Russell. 1st half 20 

743 Jack’s Courtship. Bj^ AV. Clark 

Russell. 2d half 20 


744 Diana Carew; or, For a Wom- 

an’s Sake. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

745 For Another’s Sin ; or, A Strug- 

gle for Love. By Charlotte M. 
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746 Cavalry Life; or, Sketches and 

Stories in Barracks and Out. 

By J. S. AVinter 20 

747 Our Sensation Novel. Edited 

by Justin H. McCarthy, M.P.. 10 

748 Hurrish : A Study. B3' the 

Hon. Emily Lawless 20 

749 Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter. By ' 

Mabel Collins 20 

757 Love’s Martyr. By Laurence 

Alma Tadema 10 

759 In Shallow AVaters. By Annie 
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669 Pole on Whist 20 

734 Viva. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

735 Until the Day Breaks. By 

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736 Roy and Viola. Mrs. Forrester 20 

737 Aunt Rachel. By David Christie 

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738 In the Golden Days. By Edna 

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739 The Caged Lion, By Charlotte 

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740 Rhona. By Mrs, Forrester 20 

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742 Love and Life. Bj' Charlotte 

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743 Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 

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743 Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 

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744 Diana Carew ; or. For a Wom- 

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ISO An Old Story of My Farming 
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750 An Old Story of My Farming 
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752 Jackanapes, and Other Stories. 

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753 King Solomon’s Mines. By H. 

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754 How to be Happy Though Mar- 

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755 Margery Daw. A Novel 20 

756 The Strange Adventuresof Cap- 

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757 Love’s Martyr. By Laurence 

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758 ‘‘Good-bye, Sweetheart!” By 

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759 In Shallow Waters. By Annie 

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760 Aurelian ; or, Rome in the Third 

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761 Will Weatherhelm. By 'Wm. 

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762 Impressions of Theophrastus 

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763 The Jlidshipman, Marmaduke 

Merry. By Wm. H. G. Kingston 20 

764 The Evil Genius. By Wilkie 

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765 Not W'isely, But Too Well. By 

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766 No. XIII; or, the Story of the 

Lost Vestal. By Emma Mar- 
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767 Joan. By Rhoda Broughton .. . 20 

768 Red as a Rose is She. By Rhoda 

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769 Cometh Up as a Flower. By 

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770 The Castle of Otranto. By 

Horace Walpole 10 

771 A Mental Struggle. By “ The 

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772 Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood 

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773 The Mark of Cain. By Andrew 

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774 The Life and Travels of Mungo 

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775 The 9'hree Clerks. By Anthony 

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776 P6re Goriot. By H. De Balzac. 20 

778 Society’s Verdict. BytheAuthor 

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779 Doom ! An Atlantic Episode. 

By Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. 10 

780 Rare Pale Mai’garet. By author 

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781 The Secret Dispatch. By James 

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782 The Closed Door. By F. Du 

Boisgobey, 1st half 20 

782 The Closed Door. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

783 Chantry House. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

785 The Haunted Chamber. By 

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787 Court Royal. A Story of Cross 
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790 The Chaplet of Pearls ; or. The 
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THE CELEBRATED 


SOHMER 


aMND, SQTJAEE AND UPKiaiT PIANOS. 


FIRST PRIZE 

DIPLOMA. 


Centennial Exnihl- 
tion, 1876; Montreal, 
1881 and 1882. 


The enviable po- 
sition Sohmer & 
Co. hold among 
American Piano 
Manufacturers is 
solely due to the 
merits of their in- 
struments. 



They are 
in Conservati 
ries. Schools an 
Seminaries, on a 
count ot their si 
perior tone a n 
unequaled dur 
bility. I 

The SOHME 
Piano is a sped 
favorite with tl 
leading musiciai 
and critics. 


f ARE AT PRESENT THE MOST POPUL.AR 

AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. 

SOHMER & CO., Manufacturers, No. 149 to 155 E. 14th Street, N. Y. < 


1 


6,000 MILES 


OIF 


RAILROAD 



THE BEST 




THE WORL 


IT TRAVERSES THE MOST DESIRABEE PORTIONS OP 

ILLINOIS, IOWA, NEBRASKA, WISCONSIN, MINNESOT 
DAKOTA AND NORTHERN MICHIGAN. 


THE POPULAR SHORT LINE 

BETWEEN 

CHICAGO, MILWAUKEE, MADISON, ST. PAUL, MINNEAPOLIS, 
OMAHA, COUNCIL BLUFFS, DENVER, SAN FRANCISC 

PORTLAND, OREGON, j 

AND ALL POINTS IN THE WEST AND NORTHWEST. 

PALACE ^ SLEEPING ^ GARS, > PALATIAL ^ DINING CAI 

AND SUPERB DAY COACHES ON THROUGH TRAINS. 


Close connections in Union depots with branch and connecting lin 


ALL AGENTS SELL TICKETS VIA THE NORTH-WESTERN. 

New York Oflee, 409 Broadway. Chteagro Offlee, 62 Clark St. Denver Ofltee, 8 Wind.or Hotel Bloek. ‘ 

Boatoa OOlee, 6 State Street. Omaha Olflee, 1411 Farnam St. San Francisco UfHce, 2 New iHont^omer} 

Hlnneapolle Office, 18 Nicollet Honse. St. Faul Office, 1.S9E. Third St. Milwaukee Office, 102 Wisconsin Street. 

R. S. H A I R,Gener>iI Passen-er Afent, OHirA^O. ILT^ 








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